


Break or Broke

by grayangel



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Horse Racing, I'll add more tags as i go, M/M, Racing AU, Steve is 20 that's not underage but they're in America so, Underage Drinking, don't worry they're gonna fuck eventually, jockey!Steve, kind of, stablehand!Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:06:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3145235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayangel/pseuds/grayangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is a stable hand working for Winter Oaks Equestrian Center. Steve is the new jockey Bucky has a big crush on. Both have a passion for their work, for the horses, and . . . for . . . each other? Well, that got awkward fast.</p><p>•••</p><p>This time the jeering is directed at Bucky, and one of them calls out, "Better make that shower cold to soothe the burn, Barnes!"</p><p>But Bucky's still got a lopsided grin as he drops his towel on one of the benches and takes over Steve's vacated cubicle. </p><p>"I'll get you for that later, Rogers," he promises as the water starts up. </p><p>Steve just shakes his head, face still a bit red, and hears a few more of the guys hassling Bucky as he pulls on his fresh clothes and heads out. The work is hard, but he likes the atmosphere and camaraderie here; there's no aggressive, jealous edge that he's felt in other stables. It's a nice change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Instant Crush

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm still working on the Mafia AU too but this idea just sort of came to me and I just kept thinking about it and writing it so . . . here it is? Chapter one.
> 
> Quick disclaimer, a lot of this is pulled from experience working with horses but I was an eventer, not a jockey. My trainer's husband had a couple baby racehorses that I had the privilege of starting but neither of them liked the track and came home to event instead and I never worked at a racetrack myself, so as with the other fic, no promises on the accuracy of everything going on here. That said, I'm including a short glossary for horse jargon that people with no experience with horses might not catch.
> 
> Disclaimer number two, this is a completely romanticized version of the racing world. In real life, it's a pretty awful, competitive, brutal industry that routinely abuses horses, treats them like commodities, and disposes of them the second they're no longer profitable. It's a fun backdrop for a story but to be honest I kind of despise it in real life and would not support any actual racetracks.
> 
> Some terms used in the fic are:  
> Filly: female horse under 4 years old (4+ is a mare)  
> Colt: male horse under 4 years old (4+ is a stallion)  
> Gelding: a male horse that has been castrated. Generally done to horses not intended to be used to stud, or for colts that are too wild or dangerous otherwise.  
> Bug: an apprentice jockey  
> Maiden race: a horse's first race or a race for horses that have never won  
> Barn name/stable name: all competitive horses have an official, unique name to compete under. The barn name is something more casual that they're called on a daily basis (sometimes their official names are pretty outrageous)  
> Silks: the colorful clothes that jockeys race in. Often the colors represent the owner of the horse or the barn they're from  
> Claiming race: a race where all the horses running can be bought for about the same price, and are "claimed" before the race starts
> 
> I don't have a beta so if you catch a mistake, I'd appreciate you letting me know :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve starts a new job at Winter Oaks Equestrian Center. Bucky goes shopping and considers his bachelorhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm one of those dorks who uses songs as chapter titles. This one, of course, is by Daft Punk.

It's six fifteen in the morning, and Steve is running late for his new job. His walk quickens as he ducks into the barn, gloved hands shoved in his jacket pockets, breath misting in the early morning air.

The roads had been dead on the drive over, but the stable is full of hectic activity. Horses are being led in and out, wheelbarrows pushed this way and that, manure flying out of stalls, fresh shavings flying back in, blankets whipped one way, tack being cleaned in the corner, horses being groomed and tacked on cross-ties — Steve ducks as two flakes of hay are tossed right over his head into the stall on his right. The guy who flung it blinks at him, and then flashes a grin.

"Sorry, short stuff," he says, flicking a piece of hay out of Steve's hair. Then he takes another second to look Steve over, noting his tight riding pants and tall boots. "Hey, you the new bug? I saw Barnes heading toward the track with your ride like five minutes ago; I'd run if I was you."

"Thanks," Steve mumbles, and he does break into a bit of a jog when he comes out the other end of the barn, following the slope down to the training track. Several horses are already being worked, warming up along the outside rail. Another couple are being led away, coolers thrown over their rumps as their handlers walk them back to the stable. 

Steve is distracted by one handler in particular who seems to have his hands full. He's just tossed his filly's cooler over the rail, clearly getting her ready for her work-out, but she's not making it easy for him. She scoots her rear as he drops the cooler; backs up and half rears. He moves with her, relaxed but exasperated as she snorts and hops. She's a beautiful animal, lanky with youth but sporting powerful, sloping shoulders and a shiny blood bay coat. As Steve nears, he can hear the stable hand talking.

"Aw, come on, doll, don't be like that," he's saying. "We have to do this every day? You'll get out there soon enough, get to run off all that energy, yeah . . . ah, watch it!" He ducks as she swings her head around. "Easy, baby girl. Come on, it's not my fault, we gotta wait for your dumbass rider — where the fuck's he at, anyway? Shh, shh, you're alright, lady . . ." He hops a few steps forward to keep up with her when she half rears again, then coaxes her back down, leading her in tight circles to try and relax her. "Jeez . . ."

Steve feels a twist of guilt at being late. It's for a stupid reason, too — he hadn't been able to find his helmet and had torn up his shared apartment a half hour drive away in desperation before remembering he'd put it in the car the night before to make sure he wouldn't forget. 

"Sorry!" he calls out as he approaches, making sure both the handler and the horse hear him coming so he doesn't startle them. "Sorry, I got held up — I'm the new exercise rider, slash jockey —"

He pauses, because the groom is giving him an appraising look (as well as he can while still tending to the dancing filly). Steve is used to people looking down on him outside of work; he's short and scrawny and wiry, and he gets a lot of looks for it. At the track, he'll fit right in with the other jockeys, who on average weigh a hundred and ten pounds wet and, when desperate enough, can ditch another ten pounds in a single day. It's a toss-up how stable hands react to him, though. Some of them seem to take it as a slight that they do all the prep and dirty work for some tiny little guy like him to hop up and take the glory, and more than once Steve has had grooms go out of their way to make life more difficult for him. In a way, he can understand it — he'd been a groom himself, for a time, though never a particularly competent one (he has to be realistic about his ability to lift bales of hay that weigh as much as he does over his own head), but he'd quickly been promoted to exercise rider mostly _because_ of his size. Bigger guys can do that job, too, but that's as far as they go. Steve has done it for several years now, and finally, last month, he'd gotten his jockey's license. He's still an apprentice, hence the little asterisk beside his name that earns him the nickname "bug," but if he proves good enough, he'll just keep moving up from here. Winter Oak Equestrian Center is already a more prestigious stable than the last one he'd ridden for, and he's mentally berating himself for being late on his _first day_.

Stable hands like the guy currently wrangling his ride, though, moving her this way and that and reacting to her movements like this is a choreographed dance they do every morning, he's stuck, because he's at least half a foot too tall and a hundred pounds too heavy to be a rider. Maybe he envies Steve, or maybe he's one of the ones who doesn't care, because Steve really can't tell — can't for the life of him read the look in those sharp blue-gray eyes.

"You're Rogers?" he says, turning in a circle to keep the filly moving. He's got dirt smeared across one cheek and few shavings in his tousled brown hair. "The new bug jockey?"

"Yeah, that's me," says Steve. The handler is checking the filly's girth now and pulling down the stirrups. "She's my first ride?"

He nods. "This is Black Widow, one of our up-and-coming two-year-olds. She's running her maiden in two weeks at Aqueduct so we're breezing her today, five furlongs."

"She's gorgeous," says Steve unthinkingly, but he's glad it comes out, because it gets him a genuine smile and he immediately feels better about the start of this work relationship.

"She's my favorite," the handler admits. He's got a nice, easy smile, Steve notices. "I was there when she was born, been with her all the way; her sire's Rumor Has It, and she's out of Winter Dancer." Steve isn't familiar with the names, but the handler seems proud of them. "Bit of a wild thing, but real powerful when you get her out there." He gestures to the saddle. "Leg up?"

Mounting a racehorse is a moving production that they're both familiar with. Steve takes a handful of mane and reins in his left hand and hops along on his right leg as the handler gets a hand under his left knee and boosts him up with practiced ease. He catches himself with his thighs and gets his feet in the stirrups, careful not to drop his weight directly down onto the Black Widow's back and startle her.

"What's her barn name?" he asks as he adjusts himself to the movement of the filly below him, following the swinging motion of her strides and her playful scooting as the handler leads them to the gate to the training track.

"Natasha," he says with a quick grin. Steve is warming up to him already; a lot of grooms are in a rush to get their horses in and out and generally don't have time to be friendly to a newbie like him. "Or just Tasha. After her owner's late Russian grannie."

Steve pats the filly's muscular neck, holding her back with one hand as she practically jogs in place. "Tasha," he repeats, and the handler has already turned him loose on the track by the time he thinks to look back and call out, as he pulls down his goggles, "What's _your_ name?"

"It's Bucky!" the stable hand shouts back, and then Steve's letting the filly take a bit of rein and break into a rocking canter. She's raring to go but respectful of the bit, with more up-and-down to her motion than forward speed. Steve seats himself firmly, slowing her with the relaxation in his own body and gentle half-halts as they warm up along the outer rail. She nearly leaps straight out from under him when a dark gray colt breezes past them on the inside, wanting to chase him, to race, but Steve turns her head away, getting her attention back on him. He's not cold anymore, not thinking about his lateness or the excitement of the new job or anything — completely focused, because there's nothing in the world right now except for the living creature beneath him, and he feels every shift of her muscles, feels every hoof strike the dirt, the slightest movements of her head and neck and ears that tell him where she's looking, what she's thinking.

Eventually he eases her towards the inner rail, tracking their distance by the pole markers that flash by, and lets her out into a breezing gallop. She surges forward, leaning on the bit and taking everything he gives her. She _loves_ to run, and it's exhilarating. The wind rushes past his ears and he leans lower, elbows elastic to the movement of her neck as she powers forward.

Steve always regrets having to sit back and slow down, but five furlongs are gone in a blink. Tasha fights him — she doesn't want to stop any more than he does — and he has to sit down and insist. She's got an attitude, too; as soon as they've slowed down enough for it, she tries to arch her back and crow hop. He quickly pulls her head up and nudges her into a wider trot, putting an end to that.

Bucky meets him at the gate, a bit of a fond grin on his face. "Ain't she a sweetheart?" he asks.

Steve smiles back as he hops down. "She's pretty incredible," he says as he pats the filly's sweaty shoulder, partly because it's true and partly because he wants to get on the stable hand's good side, and praising this filly seems to be the way to do that. "Who's my next ride?"

Bucky's grin widens a bit more as he nods at something over Steve's shoulder. "That's the Incredible Hulk," he says, tossing the cooler over Tasha's rump. "You're gonna look like a peanut up there."

Steve turns, and sees a massive, deep gray thoroughbred behind him, a good seventeen hands tall and thickly muscled. Two handlers are to either side of him with stud chains over his nose. He has his ears pinned and as Steve watches, he strikes the ground with one shod hoof and makes a loud, angry sound.

Steve grimaces. "Great," he says. "Well, it was nice knowing you. Wish Tasha's new jockey luck with her maiden. Bury me in my mother's silks."

Bucky laughs and claps him on the shoulder; his hand is callused from years of hard outdoor work. "All stallions strike and scream," he reminds Steve. "The Hulk acts tougher than he is."

It's not entirely true. Working the Hulk is a demanding job. Steve is a little wobbly when he hops down and heads over to the next waiting colt, and he's sore and it's wearing into the afternoon when he finishes his last ride and heads back up to the barn. It's warmer now that the sun has come out and he strips off his gloves, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders to loosen them up. He's worked up a sweat and he's spattered with dirt from the track. Done with his rides for the day, he figures he'll grab a shower in the locker room by the grooms' quarters and then run down the street to the corner market for lunch. 

He's not the only one with this idea: about a dozen other people seem to be on lunch break as well, and Steve bumps into the same stable hand who'd thrown hay over his head that morning coming out of the shower.

"Hey," he greets, and then starts to say, "I didn't catch your name earlier," but the groom holds up a finger as though to tell him to wait. Confused, Steve watches as he opens his locker, takes out something small, and inserts it into his ear — a hearing aid, Steve realizes.

"It's Barton," he says, clearly having figured out what Steve meant to ask. "Clint Barton." He gestures to the ear he'd put the hearing aid in. "Got kicked in the head a few years back — Hulk's sire, no surprise. Anger is genetic, apparently. Concussion and a blown eardrum. Rogers, yeah?"

"Call me Steve," says Steve, shaking his hand. "Can I use the showers even if I don't live here?"

"Uh, you gotta pay, twenty cash, up front," says Clint, holding out a hand. At Steve's surprised look, he laughs and withdraws his hand to ruffle it through his own wet hair. "Naw, I'm messin' with ya. Course you can. You need to borrow a towel?"

"I've got one," he says, hefting the bag he'd grabbed from his car. It's got his clean towel and a change of clothes; can't show up to his second job covered in horse, after all. "Thanks."

The shower room is crowded, but at least, Steve notes gratefully, the showers are in cubicles separated by curtains. It's not much privacy, but it's better than nothing. He's always been self-conscious of his body, of how scrawny he is, the way his collar bones and ribs and all his joints always stick out, despite being the perfect weight and size for his profession. He's got muscles — he has to; riding is no walk in the park — but they're lean and wiry and do nothing to bulk him up. It doesn't help that all the grooms around him are big, toned guys who could probably toss him up into the hayloft with one arm (in fact, Steve knows they could; he's seen them do it with the hay bales, and Steve weighs about the same).

He scrubs shampoo through his short blond hair, picking out a few bits of hay that had been stuck there and then rinsing the dirt from his neck and arms. He finishes quickly, and then dries his hair with the towel as best he can, scruffing it up, before wrapping the towel around his waist and sliding the curtain back to — oh, hit the brakes before he walks head-on into someone's sweaty pecks.

"Whoa, careful Rogers," says Bucky, scooting around him. "I know we've all here got an eye for fine animals, but try to keep it professional, would ya?"

Steve hears jeering from the cubicle next to his and feels his face heat up, but Bucky's grinning, just teasing him.

Still, he's not gonna let that go unchallenged. He gives Bucky an exaggerated once-over. "Ah, he's a fine specimen, good shoulders, straight hocks," he says, nodding as though evaluating a yearling at auction. "But I'm more of a fillies' man, myself. The wildest colts end up gelded, anyway."

This time the jeering is directed at Bucky, and one of them calls out, "Better make that shower cold to soothe the burn, Barnes!"

But Bucky's still got a lopsided grin as he drops his towel on one of the benches and takes over Steve's vacated cubicle. 

"I'll get you for that later, Rogers," he promises as the water starts up. 

Steve just shakes his head, face still a bit red, and hears a few more of the guys hassling Bucky as he pulls on his fresh clothes and heads out. The work is hard, but he likes the atmosphere and camaraderie here; there's no aggressive, jealous edge that he's felt in other stables. It's a nice change.

But it's not glamorous, and it only pays so well. Steve lives frugally, sharing a hayloft apartment over a small, ten-stall lesson barn with two other tenants. There's only one bedroom with twin beds, but the other two tenants — Sharon Carter, who works as a farm hand at the lesson barn, and her cousin Peggy, a free-lance jockey who also exercises mounts for a several trainers — welcomed the extra help with the rent when Steve said he didn't mind living on the couch, and the arrangement has been working out fine for the past five months. But even with the cheap rent, he still has bills to pay, car insurance, groceries, and, every month without fail, sends money home to his mother Sarah, who has been out of work with a bad back and needs the help.

This is why, until he starts racing and, he hopes, winning, he's been working a second job in the evenings, at the Hidden Cellar, a liquor store by day and a bar by night. He works four hours an evening, four days a week, and on weekdays it's usually a relaxing change from the bustle of the morning routine. Today he'll work six to ten, so he has a few hours off in between. He's going to use them to familiarize himself with Winter Oaks and his mounts for the claiming races next week, which is why he'd taken a shower in the groom's quarters and is only grabbing a quick lunch down the road instead of heading home.

One of these claimers, Maiden China, a frisky three-year-old who spooks at shadows, is being breezed that afternoon, so Steve heads down to the track to watch her with her regular exercise rider. Her handler, a seventeen-year-old kid called Peter Parker, leans against the rail beside him to watch her run.

"She doesn't like the track," he tells Steve as the filly fights her rider around the back turn. "Some horses, you can just tell, they love being out there — others, they'd rather be in a pasture or jumping crossrails. She's got the power to finish from behind, but she doesn't want to."

He nods to where Maiden is being eased next to two other young thoroughbreds to run a mock race, and Steve watches the gray filly fling her head up in protest as the other two start to draw a lead.

Steve chews his lip worriedly; Maiden's claiming run will be his first real race for Winter Oaks, and making a good impression with her looks like it will be tough. "Are you coming to the track with us to see her run?" he asks the young groom.

"Oh, no," says Peter with a short laugh. "I'm just a regular mucker. Actually Barnes is her usual handler — James Barnes, the guy who handled Tasha for you this morning — but today's his half day, he's got the afternoon off. So I'm covering his horses for him."

"He told me his name was Bucky," says Steve distractedly, watching with concern as Maiden, now a good twenty lengths behind her peers, gives up on the race altogether and starts broncing down the track.

"Did he?" Peter sounds surprised. "That's weird — he usually hates being called that. That's what his baby sister calls him, and Barton heard her say it one day and starting spreading it. Barnes got real pissy about it. I wasn't there but I guess they duked it out in the locker room and Barnes knocked him out. No one here's called him Bucky since."

This information is enough to divert Steve's attention from Maiden's abysmal performance to frown at the groom. "Why'd he tell me to call him that, then?"

Peter shrugs. "Maybe he changed his mind. Likes it after all. Dunno." He heads to the gate to collect the now-sweaty filly, froth flying from her mouth and spotting her coat. "Anyway, see ya later."

Steve hangs around as long as he can without being late for his _second_ job, and then heads out. The pub is only fifteen minutes from his apartment, but it's the opposite way of Winter Oaks, so it takes him about forty minutes to get there. The Hidden Cellar is aptly named — it's in a basement, down a narrow driveway under an old apartment complex, but the old-style cement room has been dressed up with wooden box wine-holders and vintage barrels that stand as stylized tables surrounded by tall stools. There's one big table to the side of the bar for a more community setting, and beside that is a small stage most commonly used for live music but occasionally, on particularly rowdy nights, for dancing, too. This early in the evening it's fairly quiet, so the only person there is his manager, Sam Wilson, a bright twenty-three-year-old who'd graduated early and is running the business for his elderly uncle.

"Hey Steve!" he greets the blond. "How was your first day at the big-shot stable?"

Steve gives him a look. "Oh, fabulous," he plays along. "Manure of the highest quality. Best-tasting dirt I've ever had kicked in my face."

"You love it," Sam teases, and the truth is, Steve kind of does.

"Anything fun and exciting happen today?" he asks as he locks his bag in the back room and slides behind the bar.

"Nah," says Sam. "Had a few interviewees in here."

Steve glances at him sharply. "Why? Someone leaving?"

Sam shrugs. "Dunno. Are you?" Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Sam cuts him off. "Come on, Steve, how long can you keep this up? I know you're heading over there at the crack off dawn, and once the racing season starts for real, you're gonna be all over the place. And you're gonna be a _good_ jockey, too, I know you are. You're not gonna be able to keep up here on top of all that. You're not gonna _have_ to."

Steve can't bring himself to admit that he really, really hopes this is the case.

"Well, we'll see after next week," he says. "Jesus, Sam, you should've seen my first claimer train today . . ." And he launches into a description of Maiden China's horrible breeze. Sam just smiles.

•••

Bucky Barnes has a big problem.

Half days are great. Bucky only gets one full day off every other week, but he gets his half day every week, and he usually enjoys them to the fullest. Today he's showered and spiffed himself up and gone shopping with his sister Rebecca, but he's completely distracted and he stands patiently in the corner of Victoria's Secret with a handful of her discarded bras, completely oblivious to the giggles around him.

He can't stop thinking about a certain scrawny, wiry, golden-haired, blue-eyed jockey.

Bucky's never had too many qualms about his sexuality. He keeps it on the down-low at work because he knows there are a few people there uncomfortable with it and, to be honest, there's really no reason to be talking about it at work _anyway_ , and that's never been a problem before. He's not the only one — he's made out with Clint about as many times as he's punched him — but for the most part, he keeps his personal life separate from his work one.

Steve Rogers, though. Holy shit.

Bucky doesn't get that feeling often. He's got a type, sure, but rarely does he land eyes on someone that makes his breath catch, makes him fumble his hold on a filly's lead, momentarily forget where he is until the only thought in his head _damn_ that kid looks good in a tight pair of riding pants with a crop in his hands. Bucky has always kind of had a thing for smaller guys — not that he doesn't like big muscles, too, but there's something to be said for the power rush he gets when he can just pick a guy up and fuck him against a wall. It was thankful that Tasha was just as incapable of holding still as he was of being subtle, or things could've gotten awkward real fast. As it was, he'd had an easy excuse to look away and feign distraction to keep from staring.

And then he'd run into him in the showers. Bless half days. God bless them. He'd never have been in there at that time any other day of the week and gotten to witness Steve's lithe, wiry build au natural and sparkling with water droplets. What a treat.

Of course, he'd tried to deflect attention from his actual very real developing crush by insinuating that the attraction was coming from the _other_ way, and he'd enjoyed watching Steve get flustered — until he'd made that remark about preferring the fillies.

It's might've been a harmless poke at Bucky's ego, but it had also felt sort of like a "don't even go there" warning, and now Bucky's sort of wishing he'd kept his mouth shut from the get-go, because he'll be seeing a lot of Steve from now on and he has this problem obsessing over things he likes. To the point where he hasn't even noticed Rebecca is in the middle of placing a pair of panties over his head and is raising her phone to snap a picture.

"Hey!" He startles, not realizing how badly he'd spaced out, and grabs for them just as the flash goes off. A couple of bras topple from the pile in his arms. "Becks! What're you doin'?"

She frowns at him. "Bucky, we've been in a lingerie store for like an hour and you haven't complained even once. I don't think _I'm_ the one with a problem here." She looks to her phone. "Jeez, you couldn't've stayed still for like one more second?"

He sighs down at his armful of cloth and lace. "Um, we almost finished here?"

"Yeah, and then we're going shopping for _you_." She eyes him up and down. "I mean, do you even own a pair of pants that aren't barn jeans?"

Bucky glances down at himself. His clothes are freshly laundered, but there are definitely old dirt and manure stains on his jeans, and his gray t-shirt is worn around the edges. "I don't need anything else," he says, a bit surprised. "Where do I ever go that I need fancy clothes for?"

"Well, first of all, you don't have to _go_ somewhere to look not like crap," she tells him. "Second, if that filly you keep mooning over actually does well on the track, you're gonna want to wear something nice to the winner's circle." She grins, but Bucky just rolls his eyes. He has no doubts about Tasha's ability, but his job is grunt work. The winner's circle will be reserved for her owners and trainer and jockey — _Steve_. "And _thirdly_ ," says Rebecca loudly. "I know that dumb look you get on your face when you're thinking about someone cute, so spill the beans, bro — who is it? 'Cause I'm gonna dress you up just for them."

Bucky didn't even consider denying it — Rebecca knew him too well. She's only a year and a half younger than him and they'd grown up practically attached at the hip, only growing closer after their parents had died in a car accident during a snowstorm seven years ago. That had been the absolute worst year of Bucky's life, partly because of the loss he felt but mostly because of the way Rebecca had reacted. While he'd wanted nothing more than to keep her close, she had pushed him away completely and gone off the deep end for a while. He'd only been sixteen but had kept himself out of the foster care system, accepting full-time employment for a local breeding farm where he camped out with the broodmares and kept an eye on new babies. He saw Rebecca about five times total that year, two of them when her foster parents had called him after she'd run away. He'd never pushed her to tell him what exactly she'd been doing — drugs or drinking or anything else — only that she'd shown up at the barn at three in morning in the middle of a strenuous birthing by one of the broodmares and, bawling in front of Bucky's boss, the barn manager, two other stable hands, the vet, and the vet's assistant, had announced that she was pregnant and needed him.

He's been fired the next day, but that hadn't mattered so much. Seven months later, he was an uncle.

But Rebecca has been his closest friend and confidant since then. She'd pulled herself back together and done very well; gone to school and graduated with a degree in dental hygiene, and is now making a good deal more money than he is. He doesn't think it's possible to be more proud of a person than he is of his baby sister.

Which is why he doesn't even bother trying to hide what's going on with him; he knows she won't buy anything less than the truth. "It's Tasha's new jockey," he confesses. "He came in to work for the first time this morning. He's _adorable_ , Becks."

She gives him an approving grin. "That's my big bro," she says as they get in line to check-out. "Crush on your poor new coworker his first day on the job. What's he look like?"

"Well, he's a jockey," Bucky offers. "So he's, you know, small. Wiry. He's real good with the horses; even the Hulk was on his best behavior." Rebecca has heard Bucky talk about his work often enough that she knows every horse he works with, so she raises her eyebrows a bit. "Um, blond hair, blue eyes. He's spunky, too, I hassled him a bit in the showers just to see what he'd do, and he got me right back." He remembers the pink flush that'd crept up Steve's neck and smiles.

Rebecca just grins and shakes her head as she pays. "Oh Bucky, you've got it bad. Is he into guys?"

The smile fades. "I dunno," he admits as they leave the store. "He made a sort of comment about fillies, but I dunno if he was just tryin' to get me back or if he really meant it."

She shrugs, linking an arm through his and dragging him across the mall towards a men's clothing store. "So take him out with you and the guys sometime," she suggests. "Flirt with him a bit, see what he does."

Bucky would really, really like to do that, but . . . "What if he calls me out on it? What if he's super homophobic, or biphobic or whatever? I have to work with the guy, Becks. I don't wanna make it weird."

"It's already weird." She holds up a snug sweater to his chest, and shakes her head. "Not your color. Come on, Buck, when was the last time you dated someone?"

Bucky tries to think. The last time he'd _fucked_ someone had been Clint, about three weeks ago when they'd both been smashed and horny, but dating? "Um, there was that girl last year, Carla —"

"That wasn't real dating, I never even met her," says Rebecca. "You always do this, Buck. Remember Sophia? And Alek? They were great but you chickened out. I say if you like this Steve guy, just go for it. If he says no he says no, just play it casual, big whoop. If he's a raging homophobe, well then, fuck that. And if he says yes, you get a cute new boyfriend, so it's win-win-win, right? Here, try these on." She dumps a pile of clothes into his arms and steers him towards the fitting rooms. "When's your next full day off?"

"This Saturday," he says, pulling off his t-shirt to try on some of the nicer things she'd picked out.

"Perfect, there's gonna be live music at the Egret Club on Friday night," she says. "Take him to that. Real smooth." He opens the door to show her the new outfit, and she looks him over. "Yeah, wear those jeans, perfect. Not that shirt, it's too small in the armpits. Let's find something that shows off those poo-mucking muscles of yours."

Bucky rolls his eyes, but it's only for show. He's actually glad Rebecca's pushing him to do this. Maybe she's right, he thinks. Maybe once he gets Steve out of their workplace, maybe if he looks like a proper date and isn't covered in dirt and sweat, maybe if he makes sure Steve has a good time and gets to know him and they hit it off . . . maybe he'll have a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Bucky makes a mistake that almost gets Steve hurt, so he tries to make it up to him by taking him for a night on the town.
> 
> Come play with me on [tumblr](http://www.theshadowofthewaxwing.tumblr.com/)


	2. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky screws up at work and almost gets Steve hurt, so he tries to get back on Steve's good side by taking him for a fun night out.
> 
> This chapter involves drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song used for the chapter title is by Nine Inch Nails.

Bucky is in the barn at five sharp the following morning. The sections of the barn are color-coded for organizational purposes, and Bucky's in charge of the white aisle for morning chores. He's got ten stalls housing two-year-olds to feed, water, turn out, and muck. They all start snorting and whickering when he walks in, some of them banging their food dishes or kicking at the wall in hungry impatience. Maiden China upends her water bucket, causing about three gallons of water to soak into the clean shavings at the front of her stall just as Bucky passes by. He stops to give her a look.

"Really? _Really_."

She flicks her ears and stomps.

He knows it's a little silly to talk to the horses like they can understand him, but it's something he's always done and, as long as there's no one else around to hear, it can sometimes be a little relaxing to unload his thoughts onto _someone_ , even is that someone is just a hungry baby horse.

He grabs the buckets of grain that had been measured out by whoever had covered for him last night from the feed room and heads down the aisle, stopping at each stall to dump the food into its occupant's feed bucket. Some of the young horses step back politely; some of them try to shove in and eat straight from the smaller bucket in his arms. One of them, a colt called Red Skull, tries to bolt out the opened stall door and Bucky nearly slams it on himself as he hastily shuts it in time, bruising his elbow nicely. Skull promptly spins and threatens Bucky with a raised hind leg. Bucky cautiously puts a hand on his rump.

"Hey, buddy," he says, edging out of the danger zone towards the feed bucket corner. "Be nice. I've got some delicious fuckin' breakfast for you and then you're gonna go out on the track have all that bad energy worked right out of ya, alright pal? How's that sound, fucker?" He shakes the grain around in the bucket, and Skull's ears immediately perk back up. He swivels around. "There ya go, you little shit head."

He pats the colt's chestnut neck fondly, because he loves all of his charges despite some of their bad manners, and backs out of the stall. He's careful to only open the door a crack, but Skull is too focused on his breakfast to make another escape attempt. Bucky walks back along the aisle with a wheelbarrow full of hay and tosses two flakes to each horse, and then starts scrubbing water buckets.

At six o'clock, the exercise riders start showing up. Bucky alternates between mucking stalls and tacking up or cooling down the horses he handles. Tasha has the day off, but Bucky's second horse for today, Red Skull, has Steve listed as his rider. As he tacks up his first charge Genuine Tiffany, called Gwen, he considers how to go about asking Steve to the Egret Club. He doesn't want to make it weird; doesn't want it to sound like he's asking Steve on a date, even though that's kind of what he wants to do. He should really get to know him first and figure out if Steve is even interested in guys.

He leads Gwen down to the training track and helps her rider mount up, and then pauses, gazing out at the track. Steve is easing back his first ride from a quick mock race he's just won, and he's got a huge grin on his dirt-spattered face and as he rises and falls to the motion of the colt's trot. He looks elated.

"How's he feel?" calls one of the trainers, Phil Coulson, from the rail. Bucky can see a stopwatch in his hand.

"Awesome!" Steve shouts back. He circles the colt around to stay in earshot. "He just went for it down the backstretch, no hesitation. He's gonna do great at the track."

Bucky quickly pulls his attention back to his own work and unclips the lead from Gwen's bridle. She's scheduled for a half hour jog, so he'll have time to clean another stall or two before he has to collect her for her cool-down. He heads back up to the barn to do just that, with Steve's exhilarated grin tattooed to the backs of his eyelids. 

He can't believe how hard he's crushing. _Rein it in, Barnes, you've had like one conversation with the guy._

Tacking up Red Skull is always a chore. Most of the others he can groom and saddle loose in their stalls, letting them munch on hay and chill while he works, but Skull is one of the few he actually takes out and puts on crossties. The colt will circle endlessly in the stall, either evading his handler or trying to crush him against the wall, and Bucky doesn't trust him with his head loose; it's only too easy for Skull to swing his heavy jaw around around and take a chunk out of Bucky while his back is turned. Even in the crossties, two leads attached to either side of the barn aisle that hook to the halter and keep his head more or less in the center of the aisle, Skull dances his hindquarters back and forth, crowds Bucky against the wall, and kicks out when the stable hand tries to clean out the dirt and manure packed into the V of his hooves. Bucky holds the top of his nose firmly when he goes to slide the bit between the colt's teeth, and has to run backwards about five feet when Skull predictably throws his head up and scoots back. But he gets the job done with practiced patience, securing the throat latch and nose band, double checking the fit of the cheek straps.

Bucky tends to get stuck with the difficult horses like Skull and Tasha. He doesn't mind — was a bit flattered, actually, when Coulson told him it was because he had such a good touch with the young animals — but it can make for a rough morning sometimes. By the time he wrestles his way down to the track, with Skull buffeting him this way and that, he's almost forgotten his new exercise rider and object of affection.

Which is why he's startled nearly out of his wits when a chipper voice greets him, "Morning, Bucky!" from the other side of the colt, where Bucky can't yet see him. He freezes up for a second, because _how the hell did Steve know to call him that, that's not what he's called at work, did he really get so distracted yesterday that that's the name he gave him, only his sister, niece, and people he's sweet on are allowed to call him that_ but apparently he did, because Skull spins around and then Bucky can see Steve standing there with a perfectly innocent smile on his face, cheeks still a bit flushed with the exertion of his last ride.

Thank fucking Christ Clint hadn't been around to hear that.

"Uh, hey," is his eloquent reply. Luckily, Skull is still being a shit and legitimately demanding a lot of Bucky's attention right now, so it's easy to mask how flustered he is. He'll have to figure out a way to tell Steve not to call him that, which is going to be tough and weird, seeing as that's what he apparently _did_ tell Steve to call him. "G'morning. Whoa!"

Skull spooks at nothing and leaps sideways, nearly jerking Bucky right of his feet.

"Looks like a handful," Steve comments, appearing entirely unconcerned.

"Oh, he's a fun one," Bucky says sardonically. "Once you're up there don't let him turn and nuzzle your boots. It's real cute until he bites you."

Steve laughs, and Bucky feels excessively pleased for having caused that sound. "Noted," says Steve. "Leg-up?"

Bucky lifts Steve up easily and helps him keep Skull under control as they head to the entrance to the track. Skull leaps about excitedly but Steve guides him with a calm, gentle hand, his slight body following the colt's every move. Bucky has always somewhat envied the riders; they have such a balanced grace to them, the way they can sit and look so still and collected and in control while a thousand pounds of muscle and energy surges beneath them like an ocean wave. Steve must be able to feel Skull practically trembling with a desire to bolt and tear up the track, but he appears entirely unconcerned, smiling a bit as he holds the reins in one hand and pats the colt's neck affectionately, as though he finds Skull's wildness endearing rather than alarming.

Bucky turns Steve and Red Skull loose on the track and the colt is instantly leaping forward. Steve sits back, holding him in. He's scheduled for a slow gallop, but the exercise rider will warm him up along the outside rail of the training track first. Bucky's a fast worker, so he figures he's got time to stick around and watch this one ride before he should get back to his chores. He has to admit that despite Steve's professionalism, he's a little worried. He's seen Skull dump more riders than he can count, and though he's sure Steve's experienced his fair share of being bucked off, it's always a cause for concern in their business. Racehorses are thrilling to watch, but nothing about them is particularly safe.

Skull is already causing trouble. Steve is holding him to a trot, but he keeps breaking into a rocky canter and flinging his head up in frustration when Steve won't let him run. Bucky worries his lower lip with his teeth when the colt manages to duck his head and get in a few rollicking crow hops, but Steve seems to have the situation under control again quickly and has Skull in a good working trot coming down the backstretch.

And that's when things really go wrong. And the worst part is, it's entirely Bucky's fault.

They're about three quarters of the way down the backstretch, coming to the bend closest to where Bucky's watching from, when two fillies in a mock race come up fast on the inside. Skull's head shoots up, nearly bashing Steve in the face, and Bucky realizes in that instant that _no, shit no, in his exasperation with the colt's shitty behavior in the barn he completely forgot to attach the blinkers to Skull's bridle._

Red Skull is a sprinter and a front-runner all the way. He hates horses coming up behind him, and he hates _seeing_ horses coming up behind him. The blinkers prevent him from being able to see them until they're already passing him, but today, he's seen them coming from three lengths back. And Steve — _Did Phil warn him? Was_ Bucky _supposed to tell him?_ — is caught completely off guard.

Bucky discovers that Steve is an amazingly obstinate and dedicated rider. Skull doesn't just bolt from the fillies: he leaps a good four feet into the air. Steve's legs are like rubber bands as he goes with it. Skull bolts down the track, careering wildly, and Steve's half-standing as he uses his body weight to try to pull the colt's head around. Bucky can see the danger — Skull is coming in at a sharp angle to the rail, and Steve's probably just as aware as he is that crashing is a very real possibility. 

Everything happens so fast that Bucky's not even sure how Steve pulls it off or what happens, but he must realize at some point that he isn't going to be able to turn away in time, so he turns _toward_ the rail instead, shortens Skull's stride, and then gives him a smack on the rump at exactly the right time. Skull is startled into leaping straight over the rail like a steeplechaser. 

He lands broncing, and Steve struggles to move him in a tight circle and keep him from bolting again. Bucky's already checked that the coast is clear and is sprinting across the track to the inner circle when Skull rears straight up. 

Bucky's feet are still moving, but everything else seems to freeze around him. Steve has no chance; the colt twists, loses his balance, and falls. He hears a pained shout from the jockey as a thousand pounds of thrashing muscle lands half on top of him. Bucky vaults over the inner rail towards the mess. Skull is already staggering back to his feet, looking as shaken as Bucky feels, but Bucky runs straight to Steve, who's lying crumpled in the grass looking winded.

"Steve! Shit, hey, you okay?" He drops to his knees beside him. "Shit, I'm so sorry, I forgot the blinkers — it's my fault, I totally fucked up." Steve just stares up at him dazedly. "Steve? Can you hear me?"

Steve blinks. "Yeah," he says, and then — Bucky can't believe it — he starts to _laugh_. "Christ. You look so worried, for a second there I thought I was dying." He pushes at Bucky's shoulder, moving the stable hand out of the way so he can sit up and gingerly feel his hip. "Ugh, I'm gonna be sore tomorrow." He glances around. "Where's the colt? He okay?"

Bucky blows out a stressed breath, looking around as well, until he spots another groom leading Skull in circles by the gate. The colt was still wide-eyed and jigging, but doesn't seem injured. "Someone's got him, he looks alright. You sure _you're_ okay?"

Steve just smiles at him. "Relax, Buck, I'm fine." And this is a really, really bad time to whip out a nicknamed version of his nickname. Bucky can only stare blankly at him, momentarily forgetting his own question, until Steve says, "Taking falls is kind of part of the job description. I've hit the ground way harder than this before, trust me."

"If you're sure . . ." says Bucky dubiously, standing and offering Steve a hand up. He has to be careful not to lift Steve right off his feet when he takes it. Steve dusts himself off and straightens his protective vest. "I'm sorry. I forgot the blinkers, that was completely — and I shoulda warned you, anyway, how he gets when horses come up behind him like that."

They start walking back towards the gate, where the other groom is waiting with Skull. Bucky can see Phil heading towards them as well, and cringes a bit. 

"Naw, the trainer should've told me that," Steve says, keeping his voice a little low now that they're getting close. "But I am gonna make you pay for the blinkers." Bucky looks to him in surprise, and it's with relief that he sees that same little smile Steve had had when he'd razzed Bucky in the showers.

Phil meets them at the gate and opens it for them. "What happened out there?" he asks. Phil's one of those awful people who rarely yells but manages to make everyone feel the size of an ant when he's disappointed. Bucky gets a humiliating lecture about his responsibilities right there in front of Steve, and he's sure his face is red enough to stop traffic by the time he stammers out his five hundredth apology and Phil lets him go. He takes Skull's lead and gratefully escapes back to the stable with him.

"You li'l monster," he grumbles to Skull as he grabs the colt's halter from the front of his stall door. "Can't behave your dumb self for one morning, can you, asshole?"

"Don't blame the horse," says a voice behind him, and Bucky jumps nearly out of his skin; he hadn't realized Steve followed him back. "He's just a baby."

Bucky grimaces. "Yeah, I know. I'm pissed at myself, actually. You don't need to get checked at the hospital or nothing?"

Steve snorts. "Naw, I'm just a little bruised is all. Phil gave me the rest of the morning off anyway, just in case, so . . ." He shrugs. "Figured I'd come over and try for a truce."

Bucky is confused for only a moment before Steve walks around to Skull's front and stands there, hands on his hips, looking the horse up and down. Bucky has to hold in a smile at the size difference between the two.

"Alright, baby horse," Steve says. "We've clearly got a problem here. Let's talk it out like the professionals we are. I propose a peace treaty." Skull flicks his ears as Bucky takes the saddle from his sweaty back, wondering what the hell Steve is up to. "Here's the deal: you behave yourself on the track from now on, and I will give you . . ." He pulls something from his jacket. "This apple."

Skull's ears shoot forward at that, and Bucky scoffs. "Well that's corruption at its finest," he says, playing along. "Bribing a coworker? I dunno, Steve, I thought better of you than that."

"I have a proposal for you, too," says Steve, turning to him as Skull munches down his treat.

Bucky raises his eyebrows, suddenly, inexplicably, nervous. "Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Here's the deal: you don't screw up the tack for my rides again, and I will give you . . ." He digs around in his jacket again. " _This_ apple."

Bucky is torn between amusement and guilt. "Look, I'm real sorry about that," he reiterates. "I totally fucked up, that was so irresponsible of me."

Steve tosses him the apple, and Bucky catches it easily. "Apology accepted," the jockey says with a bit of a smile.

But Bucky sees his opportunity and runs with it. "No, hey, let me make it up to you. Some of the guys and I are goin' out this Friday. Come with us, get to know the Winter Oaks family a bit, ya know. I'll buy your drinks and we'll call it even."

Steve raises an eyebrow, looking a bit surprised, but then he says, "Okay, sounds fun," and Bucky feels a ball of tension he hadn't noticed in his stomach dissolve. "Uh hey, what time though? I have to work until ten thirty. Second job," he adds, noting Bucky's confused look.

"We're probably gonna go out earlier than that since some of us have to work Saturday morning, but us who don't'll stay out later, we can meet up with you. Where else do you work?"

"It's a little liquor store and bar called the Hidden Cellar," says Steve. He walks beside Bucky as the stable hand unclips Skull from the crossties and leads him towards the wash stall, having waited until the previous horse finished getting her bath. Skull is still pretty sweaty from his romp and needs to be rinsed off. "Actually, if you guys don't have a place in mind already . . . all you gotta do is compliment my manager Sam's music choices and he'll give you free drinks."

Bucky feels weirdly touched by the invitation. "Yeah alright," he says. "I finish work at seven so we'll come by around eight, eight thirty?" He turns on the hose and starts spraying the cold water along Skull's legs, and then abruptly turns it off, digging his phone out of his back pocket. "Here, can I get your number? You can text me directions."

"Sure." Steve takes his phone easily and types in his number. Bucky watches his face carefully, but damnit, the jockey's face is a mask. Bucky has no idea what he's taking this as — just a coworker being friendly, or a guy asking for another guy's number so they can meet up on a Friday night?

Steve hands his phone back. He's typed in his first name "Steve," but put "the Jockey" as his last name, like Bucky was going to forget who he is or something. He quickly shoots Steve a text — _hey! -Bucky the groom_ — and it's only after he shoves his phone back into his pocket and Steve pulls out his own vibrating phone, checking Bucky's text, that he remembers.

"Oh, um — okay this is gonna sound kinda weird, it ain't really gonna make sense —" Steve gives him a curious look. "Um, you can't actually call me Bucky in front of the others, like at work or when we go out, it's not actually the name I use here — uh, jeez, this is really stupid." He runs a hand through his hair, flustered. Steve seems to be good at making him feel that way. "Sorry, I wasn't thinkin' when I told you to call me that. At work I just go by James so that's what everyone knows me by, or even just Barnes. It'll be weird if you call me Bucky around them."

Steve gives him a funny smile. "Okay," he says. He waves his phone around to show he got Bucky's text. "I'll send you the directions. Oh and just for the record?" he adds as he turns to go. Bucky glances up from where he's turning the hose back on, and Steve says, "I kind of like Bucky better."

•••

Steve does his best to dress nicely for Friday night, he really does. He wants to make a good impression for his new coworkers, and especially Bucky, who for some reason has been a bit stuck in his mind over the past week. He likes Bucky, thinks he's fun and smart and likes talking to him. This will be their first time hanging out outside of work, though, and somehow that makes it different.

Plus, he's never been to the Egret Club, but Sharon tells him it's on the fancy side as she helps him choose an outfit to wear.

"You look fine," she tells him as he eyes himself in the mirror, unconvinced. "Seriously, Rogers. You look dashing."

He rolls his eyes. He never looks _dashing_. He just looks small; scrawny at best, childish at worst. "I'm going to be seeing a lot of these people over the next few months," he says. "I want to make a good impression."

"Steve, seriously, people like us spend about half our lives with horse manure _somewhere_ on our clothes, you really think they're gonna care that much? 

He sighs. "Alright, alright, this is fine then." She'd picked out something casual but clean: skinny gray jeans and a crisp white t-shirt under a dark blue casual blazer. He dresses nicely so infrequently that he almost feels self-conscious about looking like he's tried too hard for tonight, but Sharon brushes off his concerns and practically pushes him out the door.

"Go on, have fun," she says, half strangling him with a scarf she wraps on at the last minute. "Get wasted and find yourself a nice girl at that fancy club."

Steve just gives her a look, because he's never, in all the time they've known each other, just "found himself a nice girl." It doesn't matter how spiffily he dresses; most girls aren't tripping over themselves to dance with a guy they might step on. Still, even if there's no romance in the foreseeable future, he can have a fun night out with his new coworkers. 

Sharon winks and shuts the door in his face.

True to his word, Bucky shows up at around eight thirty with six other Winter Oaks employees. Steve recognizes Clint and one of the exercise riders, a woman named Maria Hill. They sit around the big community table, joking and laughing amongst themselves. Clint gives Steve a little wave, and Bucky jogs up to the bar with a grin.

"Hey," he says. Steve feels better when he sees Bucky has clearly made an effort to dress up, too, with a pair of nice blue jeans and a fitted pea coat, his hair styled a bit with some sort of texture. It's the first time Steve's seen him without a layer of barn grime. He looks nice. "We'll need, uh," he counts quickly, "seven beers. Are you Sam?" He directs the next question to the manager, who glances over with a smile and takes Bucky's offered handshake. "James Barnes. I work with Steve over at Winter Oaks. I gotta say, I really like with the setup here. Good music, too."

Steve gives him a thumbs up from behind Sam's back. Bucky's eyes flick his way briefly, and his grin widens a bit. Steve grabs the mugs to start getting his beers.

"Thanks," says Sam. "It's my uncle's place, but I've put a lot of work into it over the past couple years. You know what? Since you're all Steve's new coworkers and all, first round's on the house. Consider it my thanks for taking good care of that kid."

Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not a _kid_ , Sam," he says. "I'm like, barely any younger than you, jeez." Steve actually kind of hates when Sam refers to him as that, even though Sam means it affectionately, because it only reminds him of how he looks to other people.

"Sorry, you're right," says Sam amenably, glancing around to make sure none of the other customers are within earshot. "It's not like you'll be using a fake ID or anything when you go out later."

Steve shoots him a look. "You're supposed to pretend not to know about that, Wilson," he snaps back, a bit sharper than he'd intended.

"Wait, hang on," Bucky breaks in. His eyebrows are drawn down in concern. "You need a fake ID?"

"Don't worry, it's fine," Steve assures him, passing over three of the beers. "I've used it before."

"No I mean — how old are you, actually?" He seems genuinely concerned about it as he picks up the beers.

Steve gives him a puzzled look. "Is it gonna bother you? I know it's technically breaking the law but I'll be twenty-one this summer, and it's not like I'm gonna do something stupid like drink and drive."

"Oh. No." Bucky seems relieved to hear this. "I just — for a second I was worried you were gonna say you were like a teenager or in high school or somethin'. Not that you look like a high schooler," he added hastily, possibly reading the look on Steve's face. "Just like, I don't wanna be, um . . . ya know, enabling underage drinking . . . but you're fine, you're an adult, um . . . " He trails off.

Steve snorts. "Alright, pal," he says, picking up the other four beers, two in each hand. Then, just out of curiosity, he asks Bucky, "Why, how old are you?"

"Twenty-three," the stable hand replies. They set the drinks down on the table to a chorus of thanks. "Ancient, I know."

"Practically an antique," Steve agrees playfully. Bucky is really kind of a dork despite his suave exterior, and Steve likes that about him. "Oh hey, since the thing at Egret starts at ten, Sam said as long as it's not too busy I can check out a little early."

"Great," says Bucky, just as Clint turns and raises his glass towards Steve.

"Cheers, Steve!" he calls out. "Guys, c'mon, cheers to the new rider. Still not sure he's at the right barn since we ain't got no steeplechasers, but hey." Steve flushes a bit as they drink to him; the story of him jumping Red Skull over the rail on the track had spread quickly, and they've been hitting him with good-natured jibes about it all week. In truth, a few people who'd been there to witness the incident first hand have told him they were impressed with how neatly he salvaged what they'd been sure was going to be an awful crash. 

Steve continues to supply the table with drinks for the next hour, alternating between chatting with them and working behind the bar. Luckily it's not too rowdy of a night, so when ten o'clock rolls around, Sam waves Steve off and lets him head out with Bucky, Clint, Maria, and the others.

Bucky's had three beers and a shot and is a little buzzed, and he's not the only one, so they take two cabs ten minutes to the Egret Club. Bucky pays Steve's cover charge, insisting that it should be included in his offer to pay for Steve's night out as an apology for screwing up Red Skull's tack, and Steve's ID passes with no trouble. They check their coats and bags and head in.

It's Steve's first time at the Egret Club, and he's really glad he put some effort into his appearance because it's actually a really nice place. It has a dark ambiance, everything decked out in black and gold with red lighting. Tables and booths with plush seating can be reserved along the walls, but nobody in their group has the money for that, so they stand around the tall tables in the main area in front of the bar, just a little ways over from the dance floor. The menus have nice leather covers and the cheapest beer is eight dollars. Steve sort of wishes he'd been able to drink a bit before coming here, too, because he's the only one completely sober still and buying all his drinks here isn't going to be cheap. Bucky works long hours, but Steve knows stable hands don't get paid very well, and he doubts Bucky even goes to places like this very often. He doesn't want to take advantage of Bucky's guilt about the incident on the track, but he also doesn't want to insult him by insinuating he doesn't think the groom can really afford this for two people.

The live band has already started playing and a couple of people are up dancing. Steve watches while Bucky goes to get them a couple of drinks. He comes back with a gin and tonic for himself, Malibu and coke for Steve, and a pretty girl with long brown hair who grins at him and looks him up and down in a way that's so obvious Steve feels self-conscious all over again.

"Hi Steve!" she shouts over the music, holding out a hand for him to shake. "I'm Rebecca, Bucky's sister. Call me Becca."

Steve supposed he could have guessed that; now that she's said it, she looks like she could be Bucky's twin. She's quite pretty, he thinks, with an easy smile and eyes a beautiful blue-gray color. "Hi," he calls back, leaning in so she can hear him, and then immediately has no idea what to say next. She's really very pretty. "Um, nice to meet you."

"You too!" she says, and then starts to back up away from the tables and towards the dance, beckoning. "Come dance!"

Steve raises his drink. "I'm gonna finish this first!" he shouts, but he doesn't think she can hear him over the music. She just grins and grabs Clint's hand, dragging the groom along with her. Clint hastily stubs out his cigarette as he goes. Steve watches her put her hands on his waist and start dancing with him. It looks like fun, but Steve thinks he needs another drink in him before he'll be able to overlook the fact that she's taller than he is.

Bucky leans forward against the table and lights up a cigarette of his own. Sighing out a stream of smoke, he asks, "What d'you think? It's a little early still, should be more people in here by midnight."

"It's nice," Steve tells him. "Fancier than I was expecting. You know, you don't actually have to pay for my drinks. You're already forgiven for the thing with Skull. I mean, I was never upset with you to begin with."

Bucky waves him off. "Naw, don't worry, I got it," he says. "I said I'd treat you, and I'll treat you. Let's do shots next and then go dance." He's already bobbing in time to the music, swaying his hips and shoulders a bit with a grin as he nurses his cigarette. He offers the pack to Steve. "You smoke?" 

Steve shakes his head, and Bucky shrugs and pockets them. "So tell me about your sister," Steve suggests. "You have any other siblings?"

"Just the one," Bucky says. He leans in so he's talking directly into Steve's ear, and Steve can smell the smoke on his breath and the subtle cologne he's wearing. "Her and my niece are all the family I've got."

"You're an uncle?" Steve replies, surprised. "Is Becca married, then?"

Bucky's already shaking his head. "Teen pregnancy," he says, shouting a bit over the music. "Accidental. Becks ain't even sure who the dad is, so I get to play father-figure, sometimes." He smiles. "Her name's Angela. She's fuckin' adorable, Steve, cutest kid you ever saw." He stubs out his cigarette. "Alright, hey, what d'you want next? Tequila? Malibu? They got these sugary lemon drop things, too, if you prefer that."

Steve shrugs. "Whatever you like," he says agreeably. "I'm not picky."

So Bucky returns with the sugary lemon drop things, which taste like candy but pack a real punch. Steve starts to feel it after just a couple of minutes, and then he gets hit with a desire to dance, too. He and Bucky find their friends right near the band and form a little group there. Steve feels like a horribly awkward dancer as he sort of bobs in place, considerably less drunk than the rest of them, but Bucky gets really into it, moving his hips and reaching his arms above his head whenever the music gets exciting enough. They end up in an uneven circle around him and Maria as the two of them start dancing together. Then Bucky leaves to get to get more shots for him and Steve, and Maria pulls Steve into the center of the circle instead.

Maria is tipsy enough that it doesn't seem to matter how awkwardly Steve sets his hands on her shoulders and tries to sway to the beat of the music. She wraps her arms around his waist and gets right in close, belting out the lyrics and rocking their hips together. He's starting to feel a little dizzy himself and grows bold enough to drop one arm around her waist and participate in the swaying a little more enthusiastically. Clint whoops from somewhere nearby.

Then Bucky returns with their shots. Steve takes it and knocks it back without really thinking, and then pauses at the look on Bucky's face and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand a bit sheepishly.

"Sorry!" he shouts. "Thanks! Uh, cheers!" He clinks his empty shot glass to Bucky's full one.

"No don't be," Bucky laughs back. "Just wasn't expectin' that of you. I'm a little turned on right now, to be honest."

Steve snorts. "Right," he says, as Bucky downs his own shot and then collects Steve's glass to take back to the bar. By the time he comes back, Maria's excusing herself to go use the bathroom, and Bucky effortlessly steps in to take her place and then, without warning, Steve's suddenly dancing with Bucky.

Bucky must be _really_ drunk, he thinks, but he's intoxicated enough himself that he just sort of goes with it, settling his hands awkwardly, one on the brunet's shoulder and one on his outer arm because Bucky's actually quite close to him and there's not room to get his other arm inside too without crowding him and probably feeling right up his chest, and Steve doesn't think that would be appropriate at all. Bucky has a warm, callused hand on each of his hips and is trying really hard to get Steve moving more enthusiastically. Steve knows he's a terrible dancer and he tries to follow the beat of the music, he really does; but after a bit he realizes it's easier to just follow Bucky, so he pays more attention to how the stable hand is moving, keeping up with his rhythm, and then everything becomes a whole lot easier. Steve has plenty of practice riding thoroughbreds; following the cadence of someone else's body is second nature to him.

"Yeah, you got it," Bucky breathes encouragingly. "Just gotta let go . . . " He lifts one hand into the air and hops a bit as the music swells. "Whoo!"

Maria comes back with a third round of shots for them, and by now the club is really starting to get crowded. Steve glances around, trying to keep track of the rest of their friends. Maria starts dancing with Clint again, while Rebecca has been escorted to one of the reserved tables by a third party who's supplying her with a glass of champagne. She grins and winks when she catches his eye. Steve is abruptly self-conscious of the fact that he's dancing with her _brother_ of all people, so he gives her a hasty thumbs up and then looks away. If he feels any disappointment that she's found someone for the evening so quickly, it's buried under his inebriation; Steve isn't stupid, knows a girl like her would never go for someone like him. Honestly, he's a little surprised Bucky is even still humoring him by dancing with him — he must really feel bad about his screw-up. It's just making Steve feel guilty now, though; one of the other grooms whose name Steve doesn't know is making out with someone a little ways from him and Bucky, and Steve supposes Bucky would much rather be doing that, too.

So, reluctantly, because now that Maria and Rebecca are otherwise occupied he's sure no one else will dance with him, he starts to pull away. Bucky responds by tightening his grip on Steve's hips.

"Where ya goin'?" he shouts. Steve can smell the tequila on his breath.

"Just a breather," Steve replies. "Besides, there are actually people in here now. Don't you want to dance with one of the girls?"

"M'dancin' with you," Bucky slurs back, but he leans back as well. Steve thinks he's about to leave, but he simply turns Steve's shoulders until Steve's back is to him and then settles his hands back on Steve's hips, falling back into the beat of the music. "Unless you don't wanna?" he adds as an afterthought.

Steve is a little torn, because he _does_ want to — Bucky's a good dancer, definitely making Steve better than he'd be on his own, and his hands feel nice holding onto him like this. On the other hand, he's not really clear on how weird it is to be dancing with his male coworker like this, and he's also not sure how much of this is Bucky talking and how much of it is the alcohol. It's a little embarrassing at his age, but Steve has such little experience being touched, and he's actually kind of enjoying the feeling of Bucky pressed up against him like this. It's just dancing, he supposes. And even if _he_ feels weird about it tomorrow, he's pretty sure Bucky will just laugh it off as a drunken good time.

So he leans back into the brunet's hold, tilting his head to say, "I'm fine if you are," and boldly reaching back to put a hand, albeit gingerly, on Bucky's hip. 

The night wears on. Bucky eventually drags him over to the bar for another shot, but unlike Bucky, Steve actually _does_ have to work tomorrow, so he refuses until Bucky haggles him down to half a shot, and then Bucky takes his own and shares half of Steve's. Then Steve gets a water and sits on one of the stools, because by this point he really does need a breather, and Bucky leans against the bar beside him. 

The music isn't quite as deafening over here, but Bucky still has to lean in close to his ear to be heard. "You having fun?" he asks.

"Yeah," Steve calls back, finding he actually doesn't care that he hasn't found himself a nice girl like Sharon said to; that was never going to happen, anyway. "I really am! You?"

Bucky just grins. "So I'm forgiven?"

Steve shoves his shoulder. "I already _told_ you you were!"

Bucky lights up a cigarette and sucks in a lungful of smoke. "I know," he says, exhaling it. "That's 'cause you're too nice a guy, Steve. I was you, I'd've beaten me up for that."

Steve glances to where Bucky's sleeves are rolled halfway up his biceps, revealing impressive muscles. "Yeah sure," he agrees. "That would've gone well for me."

"Bet you could," Bucky counters. "Jockeys are tough as nails, man, I saw you get slammed into the ground and hop right back up like it wasn't nothin' at all. I could see you demolishin' the shit out of a guy all dressed in your riding gear, wearin' like pink and silver silks, somethin' ridiculous — with those tight stretchy pants on, then wham! Spinning hook kick, spur to the eye, bam! I wouldn't stand a chance."

"I don't know any martial arts," Steve admits, but he sort of likes this description of himself. "I used to pick fights all the time as a kid, though. Got the shit beaten out of me weekly, pretty much. And not just bullies looking for an easy target, like I got those too but I went out of my way and pissed people off."

Bucky barks out a laugh. "I can see it," he agrees. "Yeah, I can see that no problem." He slings an arm around Steve's shoulders. "C'mon, let's dance again."

"Yeah?" says Steve, surprised. "You wanna?"

"Yeah," says Bucky, blue-gray eyes sparkling. They're the same nice color as Rebecca's, Steve notices. "Just in case you decide you've got a grudge against me after all. Gotta stay on your good side."

They spend another hour dancing together and with Clint and Maria, and then both Bucky and Maria seem to pass their tolerance threshold and Maria ends up having to go puke in the bathroom. Bucky is definitely unsteady on his feet, as well, clutching onto Steve's shoulders for support as they go out to get some fresh air and wait for Maria.

"So," says Clint, offering Steve a smoke and then popping it between his own lips when Steve shakes his head. "You have a good first night out with the crew?"

"Yeah," says Steve. "Thanks. Um, is he gonna be okay?" He glances with concern at Bucky, who's bent over and considering the pavement closely as through trying to decide if it's an appropriate place to puke up his guts. But he hears Steve's question, because without turning to look, he gives a feeble thumbs up.

"Doin' great," he mutters. "Don't worry 'bout me. You got roommates, Stevie?"

 _Stevie?_ No one's ever called him that before. Bucky's head is about level with his chest at this point, so he ruffles his brunet hair in amusement, pretty sure the groom is gone enough that he can get away with that. "Yeah, but they're cool," he says. "And they have their own room. Why, you want to crash for the night?"

"If you've got space," says Bucky. "'Cause I live right next to Clint, and he and Maria are probably gonna fuck real loud —"

"Yeah probably," Clint agrees, and Steve forces himself to laugh like this idea doesn't alarm him at all. In truth, he's mildly terrified of sex, but that's definitely not something he wants to reveal anytime soon.

"Aright," he says. "We can take a cab back to my place."

They say good night to Clint just as Maria staggers back out and then catch a cab on the corner. Bucky leans back with a groan and closes his eyes as Steve directs the driver, but Bucky has the presence of mind to pull a twenty from his pocket and hand it over to Steve, _still_ insisting he's paying for the whole night. Steve just accepts it with a sigh; apparently, Bucky's pride is more important to him than the fatness of his wallet. Steve will have to find another way to make it up to him; casually buy him lunch a few times or something. 

The cab drops them off in the driveway to the lesson barn where Steve lives and Steve has to guide Bucky through the barn door and up the rickety wooden steps to the entrance of the hayloft apartment. He has to shush the brunet several times, because even though Peggy and Sharon have their own room and are sound sleepers, too much noise will definitely wake them; plus, he doesn't want to disturb the sleeping horses who live below, either.

"Hold this," he instructs, guiding Bucky's hands to the railing of the stairs to keep the groom from keeling over while he digs his keys out of his pocket. "Hope you don't mind spiders. They like it up here and we don't kill them 'cause they eat the other bugs."

"Hey Steve?" Bucky slurs.

"Mm-hm?" Steve finally works the key out of the back pocket of his skinny jeans.

"You have real pretty eyes," Bucky tells him.

God, he's so sloshed. "Thanks, pal," says Steve distractedly. "You too. Real beautiful." He unlocks the door and peers in, making sure Sharon and Peggy have in fact gone to sleep even though it's at least four in the morning. The main area of the apartment is empty and their bedroom door is shut, so he flicks on a lamp in the corner and then goes back out to fetch Bucky, who seems incapable of walking unsupported.

"You think so?" the stable hand asks as Steve shuts the door behind them.

"What?"

"You think I have beautiful eyes?"

Oh, was he still stuck on that? "Sure," says Steve. "I guess?"

He turns back to the brunet. Bucky is steadying himself with one hand against the wall, but he's unexpectedly focused on Steve's face. "You wanna see them a little closer?" he asks.

It takes Steve a second to comprehend the question, and then he feels his chest tighten and his mouth go dry. Did Bucky — did Bucky just use a _line_ on him? He gapes at him, completely caught off guard. Bucky's gaze has dropped conspicuously from Steve's eyes to his mouth and then back again, and Steve can't think for the life of him. Was Bucky legitimately interested in him this whole time? Is that even possible? Nobody's _ever_ been interested in Steve before; at least, not anyone who's ever acted on it, and Steve has never been confident enough to make a move himself. He's kissed three girls in his entire life, and one of them had been a friend who'd only done it _because_ she'd found out how inexperienced he is. He's never even thought about kissing a boy before.

He still can't think of an answer. Bucky does have pretty eyes, he finds himself thinking. He has a nice mouth, one that smiles easily and is probably good at kissing. He's nice, he's fun, Steve likes him. Does Steve want to kiss him? If he does, will Bucky be able to tell how inexperienced he is? Is Bucky even sober enough to be making this decision intentionally, or will he regret it tomorrow? Will he even remember it? He's still staring at Steve, waiting for an answer. Steve is bordering on panicking. If he says yes, will Bucky really kiss him? What if he doesn't like it? How awkward will things get if he says no? What if he says nothing at all? Part of him wants Bucky to make the decision for him and just kiss him; part of him wants to shove Bucky out of his apartment and never see him again and pretend this whole situation had never even occurred.

Bucky pushes off the wall and comes towards him. Steve feels frozen to the spot. One of Bucky's warm hands takes his chin and tilts his face up. "Steve?" In the dead silence of the apartment, Bucky only has to breathe his name to be heard. He's waiting for an answer.

"Um, I, I," Steve stammers. "I dunno."

"You never kissed a guy before?" Bucky guesses correctly. He puts his other hand on Steve's shoulder, and Steve isn't sure if it's meant to be comforting or if Bucky can't keep his balance otherwise.

"Yeah," he says.

"I can kiss you and you can decide if you like it or not," Bucky suggests. His face is only inches from Steve's face. "I won't do anythin' you don't want, promise."

"Um . . . okay . . ."

And Bucky leans in, pressing his mouth to Steve's. Steve takes a sharp breath through his nose. Bucky's lips are soft, and he takes it slowly, gently sifting his fingers through Steve's hair as he crowds in closer. It's nice, but it's also weird. Steve is probably too nervous to really enjoy the moment. He flinches with Bucky's every move, and when Bucky opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, Steve just feels overwhelmed. He knows he's overreacting, knows Bucky isn't doing anything drastic, but when Bucky groans softly into his mouth and presses up against him, Steve's instincts kick into flight mode and he yanks away. Bucky blinks at him, looking surprised and a little lost.

"Um . . ." Steve racks his frazzled brain for an excuse. "Look, Buck, we're both, you're really drunk — and we're coworkers, this, we, um, we —"

Bucky doesn't wait for him to finish. "S'alright, Steve," he says, though he looks disappointed. "I'm beat, I'll just — I'll sleep on the couch."

And he stumbles past Steve to toss himself unceremoniously onto the living room couch that he has no way of knowing is actually Steve's bed. Within minutes, he's passed out.

Steve's not tired anymore. He feels strung-out and awful and weirdly guilty, like he _should've_ liked what Bucky was doing and had messed up somehow. He already regrets pulling away, but he thinks it would have been worse if he'd kept going until he was so uncomfortable he had to stop anyway, and knows it was better to stop when he did. Besides, Bucky really _was_ completely wasted. He has no way to know if the stable hand actually meant any of what he was doing or if he was just drunk and Steve was conveniently there.

He sits in the beat up rocking chair a little ways from the couch, hoping he'll be exhausted enough that he'll be able to fall asleep right there, but his mind is too agitated. He can't stop thinking. He feels fidgety all over and to his absolute horror, he thinks his eyes are growing wet. What is _wrong_ with him? He glances over at Bucky's sleeping form and feels a tightness in his chest. He can't decide which would be worse: Bucky forgetting any of this happened, or Bucky remembering it; and then whether it would be worse if Bucky pretended it never happened or actually tried to talk about it.

He still hasn't fallen asleep by five, and then there's no point anymore, because he has to be at the barn in an hour. He showers quickly, scrawls a note that he slips under Sharon and Peggy's door warning them that Bucky might still be sleeping on the couch when they come out, and then goes to grab a coffee before heading to the barn. At least it's Bucky's day off today; he won't have to face the stable hand for another twenty-four hours. By then, he hopes, he'll have figured out what he feels and what he wants. Then all that will be left is figuring out what _Bucky_ feels and wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line about wanting to see his eyes closer is actually something a pretty boy with nice eyes used on me once. It was really funny to me at the time and I started thinking about it while writing this, and I figured it was something drunk Bucky might say.
> 
> Also in case anyone's wondering, Steve's physical response — going into flight mode, feeling jittery, tearing up and feeling guilty about it — is a sort of social anxiety.
> 
> Come play with me on [tumblr](http://www.theshadowofthewaxwing.tumblr.com/)
> 
> P.S. Thanks for all the nice comments, and for those of you who have said hi on tumblr! It really encourages me to keep writing and get the next chapter rolling :)
> 
> EDIT: Apologies if the next few updates are a bit slow! I'm in the middle of changing jobs and moving so I'm quite busy these days. I'm flying home to America for a week at the beginning of March and when I get back here after that I should have more time to write, as my new job has much better hours than my current one and I will be all moved in to a new place.


	3. Attract Me, Distract Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky come to terms with their drunken rendezvous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song title drawn from Amy Winehouse's "Amy, Amy, Amy," which obviously wouldn't make a good chapter title but go listen to the song and imagine she's singing about Bucky.
> 
> Also, apologies for the delay! My schedule will be hectic until the middle of March and then I'll have more time to write.

Steve doesn't have to work at the Hidden Cellar on Saturday so he's able to crash as soon as he finishes his six rides at the barn. He's lucky. He's so tired he can barely think straight when he gets home at one in the afternoon, but Peggy meets him at the door and tells him he just missed his houseguest leaving by about five minutes flat. Steve can't be grateful enough to have avoided _that_ situation.

"He's the coworker you went out with, right?" Peggy asks as Steve shucks his boots and jacket and digs a change of clothes out of his bureau so he can go shower. Living on the couch doesn't afford him much privacy. "Did you have fun? I gotta say, when I saw your note I thought you'd actually brought someone home with you like, you know . . . "

She trails off suggestively, and to his horror, Steve starts to feel a flush creep up his cheeks because he's starting to realize that _yeah, that's kind of exactly what he did_ , and it would've gone further than it had if he hadn't been such a chicken. He doesn't know why he feels so awful about the whole thing — it was only a kiss, after all. Part of him is mad at Bucky, even though he knows that's not fair at all because Bucky didn't do anything wrong; and a bigger part of him directs that anger at himself, even though _that's_ not fair, either, because he's allowed to be confused and nervous and not want to jump into things he's totally unprepared for. But now everything is weird, and he doesn't know how he's going to face Bucky tomorrow. Or ever.

"Nah," he mumbles. "I mean yeah, it was fun. I'm gonna shower and then pass out, okay?"

Peggy catches on to his mood. "Hey, what's wrong?" she asks. When Steve ignores her in favor of digging through his socks and underwear drawer for an actual pair of underwear — he could swear he has a clean pair of boxers in here somewhere — she presses, "Steve? Did something happen?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing really," he says, because it _was_ nothing, a stupid drunken kiss was nothing, he shouldn't be obsessing over this like he is. "Just didn't get any sleep last night, that's all."

He pushes past her into the shower and then spends about twenty minutes drowning himself in the hot spray. He tries to tell himself it's not that big a deal. Friends kiss each other; it happens. He can just laugh it off when he sees Bucky tomorrow, poke fun at him for how sloshed he was and pretend he hadn't been rattled to his core. But then he thinks about dancing with Bucky and how nice it had felt to have that solid body pressed up behind him, hands firmly gripping his hips, and he shoves his head back under the water and wishes he'd just kissed Bucky back.

By the time Sunday morning rolls around, he still hasn't sorted out his response, so he's decided the only thing to do is wait and see how Bucky reacts to him. Maybe Bucky will have something to say on the matter, and Steve can just let him take the lead on this.

As always, the stable is already crawling with activity by the time Steve arrives, though it's a bit more subdued than usual, being a Sunday. Steve's first ride is Tasha, and he makes his way down to the track with a ball of nerves spinning in the pit of his stomach. He can see them from a distance, the spunky filly leaping around her tolerant handler. He forces himself to smile as he approaches.

"Morning Bu — James," he quickly corrects himself. "Looks like she's feeling good today."

Bucky is clearly distracted by his charge, but he glances around with a quick smile. "Hey Steve. Yeah, she's ready to get out there."

Steve fidgets a bit uncomfortably as Bucky checks the girth and pulls down the stirrups for him. "Did you, uh, have a good day off?"

"Urgh, man," groans Bucky. "I had the _worst_ hangover. Your roommates came out and thought I was dyin'. Thanks for lettin' me crash at your place, by the way. I usually don't drink that much, promise."

Steve waits for the inevitable, waits for him to say something about the kiss — that it was a mistake because he was drunk, or he'll laugh about it being a silly thing they'd done, or maybe he'll poke fun at Steve for being a wuss — but all he says is,

"Leg up?" 

He's boosting Steve up almost before Steve's ready, and the jockey loses his balance slightly. Bucky holds him up easily as he slips his foot into the left stirrup, but he feels himself flush all the same. 

"Thanks," he mumbles, gathering up the reins. Bucky leads him towards the track without another word and now Steve's as confused as he is conflicted. Is Bucky just going to pretend nothing happened? Is it because he feels awkward about it, or because he just doesn't care? God, this is the worst. Part of Steve has always wanted to be able to do relationships, but if this is even a taste of what one would be like, maybe he's not missing out on all that much, after all.

It doesn't hit him until Bucky's turned him loose on the track and he's warming up the filly along the outside of the track that there's another reason Bucky might not be bringing it up: he doesn't remember.

Shit, he doesn't remember. _He doesn't remember._ First there's relief, then annoyance, and then even a little hurt. Steve tries to shake it off — _don't be stupid, you knew he was sloshed, Rogers_ — but shit, the one person who'd seemed to have acted on an attraction towards him couldn't even remember having done it, and that stings. He blows out a breath, turning his attention to the comforting rhythm of Tasha's steady trot. She's on her best behavior today and is scheduled for twenty-five minutes of jogging, so his attention can wander as he lets muscle memory take over. The more he thinks about it, the more frustrated he is with his own reaction Friday night. 

He reimagines the scene, except this time, instead of pulling away, he kisses Bucky back. He lets the groom press up against him and kiss him deeper, feels those square, callused hands sliding through his hair and against his neck and then down his back, gripping his hips like he'd done in the club but with more intention this time. Steve would still be uncertain and inexperienced, but Bucky would get that. He'd go slow, let Steve adjust and figure it out. _You can decide if you like it or not_. Steve would get breathless and need a break, pulling back, and Bucky would kiss along his jaw and down his neck with warm, soft lips. _I won't do anythin' you don't want, promise._

He can't look Bucky in the eye by the time he brings Tasha out the gate, dismounting hastily and passing the sweaty filly over to the handler with a muttered, "Thanks," and making a beeline for his next mount before Bucky can make any sort of conversation. He feels a little guilty as Clint gives him a leg up onto a lazy gray colt called Quicksilver — a misnomer if ever there was one — because coming off as rude is the last thing he wants, but he doesn't know how else to deal with what he's feeling right now.

"Yo, earth to Rogers," Clint says, snapping his fingers. "Did you hear anything I just said?"

"Uh . . ." 

Clint sighs. "C'mon, man, bad enough you were a zombie yesterday but at least I got that and one day I can handle, but get it together, dude. I said, Phil changed his mind and wants Silver breezed three furlongs today, alright?"

"Got it," says Steve. "Thanks, Clint."

But Quicksilver doesn't prove to be enough of a distraction, and by the time he hops off his last morning ride, Maiden China, he's moved on from relief and hurt to frustration, and not just with the filly. Bucky comes to the track to collect her and Steve trails after him to the barn. He just wants to know what it _meant_ — if Bucky is actually in any way attracted to him or if it was just a mistake. For all he knows, Bucky's one of those people who will kiss _anyone_ when he's drunk.

But if Bucky doesn't remember it happening, he isn't going to be the one to bring it up.

"You get a lunch break sometime soon?" he asks.

Bucky startles as though he hadn't realized Steve was right behind him. "Oh," he says with a quick smile — _stop looking at his mouth_. "Hey. Yeah, I just gotta finish up chores and then I get an hour."

Steve shifts his feet as Bucky brings Maiden into the wash stall, and then says, "I'm going to run down to the corner market for lunch, did you wanna go?"

Bucky glances over at him. He's covered in a layer of sweat and dust but he cuts an impressive figure in just barn jeans, muck boots, and a beater as he easily uncoils the heavy hose with arms powerful enough to lift Steve five feet up to the back of a horse without missing a beat; hands that fit snugly on Steve's hips as they sway to music; and he can't see the muscles of his chest and abdomen but he knows what they feel like pressed up against his back . . .

But those ice-bright eyes look regretful. "I can't today," he says. "Tasha's dam is getting ready to drop another baby any day now, I'm gonna go visit her in the broodmares barn. Another time?"

Steve hesitates; he doesn't want to be pushy, but . . . "Well, I can pick something up while you're finishing chores," he suggests, "and we can eat in the barn."

Bucky raises his eyebrows, and for a moment, Steve thinks it's too much and is about to retract the offer. But then Bucky gives him that easy smile and says, "Alright. Thanks."

"Sure." Steve scratches the back of his neck self-consciously and realizes he's still wearing his helmet. He hastily unsnaps it and takes it off and then wishes he hadn't, because his helmet hair is probably atrocious. He scruffs a hand through it as he asks, "What do you want?"

Bucky turns on the hose and starts spraying Maiden's legs off. "Hummus wrap!" he calls over the sound of the water. "With no onions and extra tomatoes."

"Hummus wrap, no onions, extra tomatoes," Steve recites. "Got it. You want coffee or soda or something?"

"Sure," says Bucky. "Uh, surprise me."

•••

Bucky blows out a breath as Steve walks away, gradually moving the spray of the hose up Maiden's knees and hocks and rinsing off her sweaty back. He doesn't think he's ever been this confused by someone before. His day off had been twenty-four hours of alternating between regret, disappointment, and worry — regret for being too forward, too fast; disappointment at Steve's reaction; worry that he'd screwed everything up and that even their workplace relationship would be strained and awkward. Worry that he'd made Steve so uncomfortable the jockey wouldn't want anything to do with him.

But Steve is just — normal. As though nothing had even happened. Bucky's memory of the later part of the night was a bit spotty, true, but sometime between his last shot of tequila and waking up on Steve's couch, he can feel the jockey's soft hair between his fingers and his mouth on Bucky's and the tension in his body as he jerks away and puts distance between them again. Steve had made an excuse — they were drunk, they were coworkers — but Bucky knows what he had really said: it had been his first kiss with a guy, and he hadn't liked it.

And if Steve wants to pretend it never happened, Bucky isn't going to be the one to bring it up.

He finishes his chores quickly, switching out which horses are inside and which are out, feeding lunchtime hay, checking waters, and throwing down new bags of shavings from where they're stacked in the hayloft. When he's done he heads for the broodmares barn on the other side of the facility from the training barns.

This barn is much quieter, with none of the frenzy of the training stables. The morning chores have been finished here, and Bucky waves a quick greeting to Gwen Stacy as the other groom heads out for her own lunch break. 

Tasha's dam Winter Dancer is in her double stall, munching on a pile of hay in the corner. Her pale gray stomach is swollen with pregnancy, but she perks up her ears and ambles over to the stall door when Bucky whistles and offers her a carrot.

"She's got Tasha's face," says a voice behind him, and Bucky startles. He turns to see Steve holding a plastic bag and two coffees.

"You gotta stop sneaking up behind me like that," Bucky admonishes, but Steve just gives him a smile as he reaches into the plastic bag and pulls out Bucky's lunch.

He holds it out. "One hummus wrap," he says. "No tomatoes, extra onions."

That's wrong. Bucky hates onions. Steve got it backwards. He takes the wrap and stares down at it regretfully. Steve's got this cute little smile like he's so pleased with himself for remembering, and Bucky can't make him feel bad about this. He peels back the plastic. He has to eat it. He has to pretend nothing is wrong. He braces himself.

And Steve starts to laugh. "I'm _kidding_ ," he says, setting their coffees on the two hay bales stacked outside Dancer's stall. "Christ, Bu — James, don't look like you're about to martyr yourself. There's no onions, and I haggled you three whole extra slices of tomato. Promise."

"Oh thank god," Bucky exhales, and takes a huge, blissful bite of the wrap. Around his chewing, he says, "You don't know how much pain I thought I was about to be in."

Steve grins — god, he's so cute Bucky can't even be bothered to get back at him for the prank — and reaches out to pat Dancer.

"She looks ready to pop," he says. "Who's the dad?"

"Rumor Has It, again," Bucky tells him, sitting on the hay bales to enjoy his lunch. "So the baby'll be Tasha's full sibling. She was such a strong baby, they decided they wanted another."

Steve keeps scratching Dancer's ears. "Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?" he asks.

Bucky shrugs. "Don't really matter. A girl, maybe, if I had to pick. I tend to like the fillies." And then he has to grin a bit despite himself as he nearly echoes what Steve had said to him last week in the locker room. It fades just as fast now that he knows it hadn't just been a joke.

The space between them goes silent, awkward. Bucky picks up his coffee and takes a sip for something to do, and has to pretend he doesn't burn his tongue a little on the hot liquid. Steve scratches Dancer just this side of too studious, determinedly keeping his attention off of Bucky. Bucky's mind abruptly goes blank, and he can't think of anything appropriate to break the weirdness with. 

It turns out he doesn't have to. Steve speaks first. "Can I ask you a question?"

Bucky's heart rate picks up again, but he tries to come off casual as he answers, "Yeah, shoot."

Steve keeps his attention on the mare when he asks, "On my first day of work, why'd you tell me your name is Bucky if you don't want to be called that?"

Bucky takes another swig of coffee and wonders if this is Steve's roundabout way of calling him out. "Just slipped out," he muttered. "I was distracted. People do call me that, just not here."

"Who calls you that?" Steve presses.

Bucky shrugs. "Becca, mostly. Angela, when she isn't using sillier nicknames. My parents did. I dunno, other people I've been close to." Past exes, he means, but Steve doesn't have to know that.

Steve finally looks at him. "Why 'Bucky?' I would've thought, like, Jim or Jamie or something."

"It's my middle name. Buchanan."

"Like the president?"

Bucky sighs. "Yeah, like the president."

Steve picks up his coffee and fiddles with the sleeve. "Can I ask you another question?"

Bucky smiles despite himself. "You don't have to ask me if you can ask me questions, you know."

Steve frowns at the cup in his hands, as though having some sort of internal debate with himself, and then, as though he just can't hold it in any longer, he blurts out, "What do you remember from Friday night? I mean, you were pretty drunk so . . ."

It's with a breath of relief, whether good or bad, that Bucky settles back against the stall door: Steve has essentially given him permission to bring it up, now. "You mean, do I remember kissing you?" Steve's face turns an adorable shade of pink. "Yeah, I remember pretty much everything." He crumples the trash from his lunch into a ball and lobs it across the aisle at the garbage can.

"Oh." Dancer looks over the stall door, and suddenly her head is between them so Bucky can't see Steve. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Bucky shrugs and stares at the mare's soft gray cheek. "What's there to say? I'm sorry, I guess, for comin' onto you like that. Bein' drunk's not really an excuse, I know." He rolls his now empty coffee cup between his hands. "I don't wanna make things weird, so like, we can just pretend nothin' happened, if you want."

Steve glances under Dancer's neck, blue eyes puzzled. "No, that's not — I mean, _I_ wanted to say sorry, actually. I, uh . . . " He turns pink again. "I overreacted. I mean, I just — I don't have a lot of experience with that sort of thing and I got nervous. And I shouldn't have — I mean — I regret, just, reacting the way I did . . ." He trails off, face red enough to stop traffic.

Bucky has to remind himself to keep breathing. Does Steve mean . . . he regrets stopping things? He regrets pulling away? "Can I ask _you_ a question?" he asks, and feels butterflies, actual fucking butterflies, in his stomach when this makes Steve crack a small smile through his embarrassment.

"Sure," the jockey mumbles.

"It's kind of a personal one," he says. "But just so I know where things stand — are you into guys or girls or what?"

Steve moves around to Bucky's side of Dancer's head so they aren't talking around the horse. "I dunno, really," he admits. "I always thought I was into girls, but — well, I mean, I really liked dancing with you. And afterwards, I was just — I dunno. I never kissed a guy before so I freaked out a little. First time jitters." 

Bucky can feel that surging sort of excitement under his skin, that crackling electricity of hope. "So — does that mean I can maybe try it again?"

Steve freezes, and for a moment, Bucky panics and thinks he's completely misread what Steve was saying. But then he places that look on Steve's face: surprise. "You want to?" he asks, and there's a odd note in his voice.

"Well, yeah," Bucky says, as though this is obvious. "If you're okay with it. Maybe I wasn't clear enough when I spent an entire night dancin' with only you but you're kinda totally my type."

Steve flushes so easily. Bucky gets to his feet, and it's both cute and a little peculiar how tense Steve goes, as though he's expecting Bucky to take a swing at him. Bucky's not sure whether to be worried or flattered that he seems to make Steve so nervous. He glances around quickly to make sure nobody else is nearby, and then reaches past Steve to open the stall door.

"C'mere." He pulls the jockey into the double broodmare stall and slides the door shut behind them, steering Steve to the far corner behind Dancer in some semblance of privacy. He can see Steve's pulse hammering by his jaw; Christ, he's _so_ nervous. Bucky leans against the wall and takes the jockey's slender waist in his hands, guiding him in a bit closer. Wide blue eyes flick from Bucky's face to his chest and shoulders and then back again. "No first time jitters," he admonishes teasingly, and that earns him a small smile. "I'm gonna kiss you now. Okay?"

"Okay," Steve breathes, so Bucky leans down and presses their lips together. At first, Steve is stiff and resisting, so Bucky slides one hand up to his shoulder and pulls back briefly, giving him a moment before moving in again. The second time is a little more relaxed, and the third even more, until Steve actually starts kissing him back. It's slow and experimental as Steve tests the waters, but when Bucky turns his head to deepen the kiss, Steve parts his lips and lets Bucky slide his tongue into his mouth. His hands creep up Bucky's chest and find purchase at the back of his neck and in his hair and he makes a soft little sound in the back of his throat.

It has an alarmingly immediate effect on Bucky's body, setting a fire under his skin. The kiss becomes more heated and his hands wander, gripping Steve's hips, his waist, shoulders, the back of his head, even his ass, briefly, until Bucky reminds himself that Steve wants to take it slow and reins himself in. 

Steve eventually pulls back for a breather, but he's smiling and his hands are still on Bucky's shoulders, his breath a bit heavy and his lips swollen.

"Better this time?" Bucky asks with a grin, and Steve surprises him by leaning in for another kiss rather than answering. Bucky's fine with that; Steve's mouth is so soft and warm, he could kiss it all day. Steve's hand in his hair is tentative, gentle, and it feels nice. He plays with the hem of Steve's shirt for a moment, and when Steve doesn't stop him, slips a hand underneath it to feel the smooth muscles of the jockey's back. Steve's small, but he's packed with hard, wiry muscles from his sport. They shift and flex under Bucky's fingers as he kisses Steve thoroughly.

The sound of a stall door being opened a ways down the aisle startles them into breaking apart. They're still hidden from view behind Dancer and whoever else is in the barn is four or five stalls away, so Bucky takes a moment to smooth Steve's now mussed-up hair back from his face. Steve gets a small, embarrassed grin. God, he's so cute. Bucky just wants to stay here for the next ten hours.

"I have to get back to work," he says regretfully, and the disappointment on Steve's face makes it so tempting to just blow off his responsibilities . . . but the horses are waiting for him.

"Me, too," Steve sighs. "I have to look up my competition for the races this week."

Bucky wants to kiss him again, just one more, quickly, but the footsteps have come back into the aisle and are heading their way, so he reluctantly lets the jockey go.

"James!" calls a voice he instantly places as Clint's. "You down here, man? Makin' sweet, sweet love to your horsey girlfriend?"

"Dude, gross," Bucky replies, sliding the door open and letting himself out of the stall. "Though, if I were, you know our babies would —"

"Gonna stop you right there," says Clint. He pauses in front of Bucky, hands shoved in his jeans pockets. "Phil says to pack up, you're heading to the track tomorrow instead of Wednesday. Wants Tasha to settle in before her big day this weekend."

Bucky groans. "Nice of him to give me a heads up. Are you going?"

"Yup." Clint grins in a way that makes Bucky suddenly hyperaware of the fact that Steve is still somewhere in the stall behind him. "We're bunking together. Hope you don't mind . . ."

He moves in a little closer, reaching as though for Bucky's hips, and Bucky uses the split second it takes Clint to check there's no one else in the aisle to slip out of range. It's only when Clint turns back, looking puzzled at the sudden distance, that Steve finally makes an appearance.

"Hey Clint," he says casually, popping out from behind Dancer. Clint startles. "I didn't know you were going to the races, too."

"Uh, yeah, couple of my charges are running." He glances from Steve to Bucky and back again. "What're you doing down here?"

"Lunch break," Steve says, gesturing to his sandwich trash. "And chatting with Dancer here about how her daughter is going to demolish the track on Saturday." He's chewing his lip, and then he says, "Speaking of which, I need to go talk to Phil about the competition so I'll let you two, uh . . . have your space." He gives a small wave that isn't nearly as nonchalant as it pretends to be and starts down the aisle.

 _Shit_. Steve had seen Clint's move and read it for exactly what it was. He wants to run after Steve and explain that what he and Clint have is purely platonic and called off any time one of them pursues an actual relationship, but Steve is already outside and he doesn't want to make a scene where someone might see. For that matter, he doesn't want to assume that Steve sees what they've been doing as "pursuing a relationship." Bucky's not sure himself. Is that what he's doing? Or does he just like the way Steve feels under his hands and mouth and only wants to see how far that blush of his goes? He barely knows Steve, after all.

Clint jerks a thumb after him. "Should I ask?"

"No," says Bucky. He rakes a hand through his hair and realizes it's mussed up from Steve's fingers. At Clint's raised eyebrows, he blows out a breath and adds, "Yeah, okay, it's not like you didn't know I have a type. Just give me some space for a bit, alright? If we're bunking together, we're _just_ bunking together, yeah?"

"Sure, sure," says Clint easily. He pulls a bit of hay from the bale and sticks it between his teeth. "You want me to tell him this is totally one-sided and that you hate how I constantly hit on you and you have eyes for only him?"

"No!" Bucky blurts out before it registers that Clint's not even half serious. "God, no. Don't say anything. Don't talk to him. Don't even look at him."

"Oh no." Bucky glances over. Clint is squinting at him, mouth half open, eyebrows furrowed. "Ohhh no." He starts to laugh. "Ooooooh nooooooo."

Bucky shoves his shoulder. "Fuck you, Barton!"

"You're crushing _so hard_ , Barnes!"

"Shut yer face, dickwad!"

"Aww, you're blushing — whoa!" He ducks under Bucky's fist. "Easy there, Romeo. I don't wanna have to bruise up that pretty face of yours and ruin your chances."

Bucky doesn't even want to imagine what a conversation about him between Clint and Steve would sound like. "If you say _anythin'_ to Steve —"

"Yeah yeah yeah, got it, I won't tell our newest jockey his groom wants to stick it —" This time he doesn't move quite fast enough and gets cuffed in the side of the head. Luckily, Bucky's swing hadn't been entirely serious.

It was going to be an interesting trip to the racetrack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Steve sees an old enemy, has his first race for Winter Oak, and learns (from Bucky) that haylofts are good for more than just storing hay . . .
> 
> Come play with me on [tumblr](http://www.theshadowofthewaxwing.tumblr.com/)


	4. Venus as a Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve bumps into a childhood bully and struggles through his first race for Winter Oak. Afterwards, Bucky conspires to get him alone in a hayloft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me like five years to write. Tried to make up for it by this being the longest chapter so far with some smutty hayloft action for ya. Enjoy?
> 
> Chapter title by Björk.
> 
> No beta. If you catch mistakes, feel free to let me know.

Steve's new favorite thing is Bucky's body pressed against his. He sprawls on his cot in the jockey's quarters of Aqueduct Racecourse with the groom on top of him. Bucky's hands in his hair, Bucky's lips on his skin, Bucky's wicked tongue in his mouth and Bucky's hips grinding down against him . . .

"You can decide if you like it or not," Bucky whispers, rolling against him.

"I like it," Steve pants. "Feels nice . . ."

Bucky's breath is hot against his neck, teeth and tongue gently sending spikes of pleasure rocketing along Steve's spine. "I won't do anythin' you don't want," he assures the jockey. "Promise . . ."

"I want it," Steve moans. "God, Bucky — please —"

Bucky kisses a line to his ear. "Beep beep," he replies.

Steve digs his fingers into Bucky's back, pulling him closer. "What?" he gasps.

"Beep beep," Bucky murmurs. "Beep beep. BEEP BEEP."

Steve jerks awake. His alarm blares obnoxiously beside him, and with a groan he reaches out to swat it off and check the time: seven thirty. He needs to get down to the track — after he takes care of a small problem in the shower. With a groan, he rolls out of bed, grabs his towel, and heads out.

He locks himself in one of the cubicles and slumps against the wall, cold water pummeling his back and raising goose bumps on his pale skin. He really should be thinking about his first race of the day, but god, he can't get his mind off his coworker. They'd had such a nice moment in the barn on Sunday, but after Clint's not-so-subtle advance on Bucky, Steve has no idea what's going on anymore. Were the two grooms dating? Exes? Fuck buddies? Steve's own lack of experience is making him feel ridiculous. What's Bucky playing at, messing around with him at all?

He shakes his head firmly. No. Maiden China. She's running a claiming race in a field of ten young horses, none of them first-timers like she is. She's number two in the starting gate, which will be good for her — with any luck, the horses to her outside and the rail to her inside will keep her from weaving too much. He'll go watch the morning workouts to get an idea of how the track is today, but his best bet for the moment is to send her out front along the inside rail and lead the way to the backstretch. If he can get an early lead, he has a chance of at least placing when she inevitably tires along the backstretch and the come-from-behind horses catch them up. If she falls back early, she'll spend the whole race fighting him, and Maiden doesn't have the willpower to chase the lead from behind.

And he can't fuck this up. His first official race with Winter Oak, everyone will be watching — the filly's owners, the people claiming her, Phil, Clint . . . Bucky . . .

Shivering, he shuts off his cold shower and wraps his towel around his waist. Think about the race, not Bucky. Think about —

He opens the cubicle and, as seems to be his habit these days, nearly walks straight into the person passing by. 

"Sorry," he mutters. "I didn't —" And then he actually gets a look at the guy's face.

Shit. 

The other guy's eyebrows shoot up, and his face curls into a grin. " _Rogers_ ," he drawls. "Looky, looky, someone went and made you a real proper bug, eh? That's some fuckin' poetry."

Brock Rumlow. Of all the shitty luck, he has to run into the one person he'd least like to see in the world. "Yeah, good morning to you, too, Rumlow," Steve sighs, starting to edge past him. "Excuse me."

"Nah nah nah, hold up, shrimp." Rumlow grabs his arm and shoves him back against the cubicle door; Steve tries not to wince when the jamb digs into his back. Rumlow's big for a jockey, and Steve has to look up a few inches to glare indignantly at him. "It's been what, four years since you ditched high school? We've got a lot of catching up to do."

For as small as he is now, Steve had been even tinier in school, as puberty seemed to have gotten hopelessly lost on its way to him and arrived several years too late to be much help. His pathetic attempts at fighting back had made him the most entertaining target for older bullies like Brock Rumlow. He was beaten up so regularly and his grades were so terrible he'd dropped out several months into his junior year and gone to work full time at the barn he'd then been a working student at. He hardly regrets it.

And neither has he forgotten that Rumlow's money comes from his parents' massive training facility and that Rumlow himself had aspirations to be a jockey. Despite being on the bigger side, with his parents' influence and their good horses, he'd managed to make a name for himself. It was just Steve's bad luck that the other jockey happened to be at the same track, at the same time, in the same quarters, just in time to corner him in the shower when no one else was around and there were no cameras to see.

Steve takes a deep breath. "Excuse me," he mutters. "I need to get down to the track."

He's pushed himself bare inches from the door when Rumlow grabs his shoulders and slams him back. This time he can't stop a grunt of pain; he's going to have two doorjamb-shaped bruises within the hour.

Rumlow pins him there, his stare calculating. "You're riding that Winter Oak filly on Saturday, aren't you? You think having a decent mount will save your ass in a field of real competition?"

Steve's hands are automatically balling into fists by his sides. "Real competition? You mean you? You've got your mommy's horse to ride, I saw the schedule."

Rumlow's face tightens. "What'd you just say?" He gives Steve a shove.

 _Don't do it, don't do it, don't —_ "Just that some of us actually earn our decent rides, while others . . . " He shrugs under Rumlow's borderline painful grip. "Well, I guess they just had to keep you happy. They didn't put you on their starter for the Distaff Handicap, that would've been . . ." He grimaces for show, and knows he's hit a nerve when Rumlow's face turns bright red; the Distaff Handicap, with a purse of two hundred thousand, is the highest graded race this weekend, and though the Rumlows have a horse running it, their son isn't listed as the jockey.

Steve has the split second it takes Rumlow to pull his fist back as warning, and then he's whipping his arm up, grabbing the back of his own neck and turning to protect his face with his arm. He's no martial artist, that much is true, but after high school he'd invested in a few self defense classes. It's not something he's terribly proud of, but he's had to use what he learned on occasion. Rumlow's fist glances off his elbow, and then Steve's grabbing his wrist with his other hand. He switches hands, shoving Rumlow's arms down and aiming his left elbow at the taller jockey's nose like he'd been taught. He's a little clumsy — Rumlow dodges the blow and throws another punch, and this time Steve's not so lucky. It catches him in the solar plexus and he drops to the floor like a stone, bruising his chin on the tiles with a wheeze.

Maybe Rumlow's matured a bit since high school, because he doesn't kick Steve while he's down, but backs up with a derisive, "We'll finish this on Saturday," before slamming into another cubicle. A moment later, the sound of shower water hitting bare skin starts up.

It takes Steve another three minutes or so to heave himself up off the floor, fixing his towel around his waist and rubbing his chest. He needs to get down to the track, needs to see how the morning horses handle the footing and plan his own trip around it with Maiden China.

It's a Thursday, so it's not too crowded, not like he knows it'll be on Saturday. He's still feeling a little winded by the time he weighs in and heads down to the paddock to mount up. Bucky is leading Maiden past the spectators when Steve catches up to him. The filly has already worked herself up into a light sweat, head flung high and nostrils flared with nerves. Bucky keeps her steady with a gentle hand and words muttered under his breath that Steve can't hear until he gets close.

"Easy, girl, easy . . . fuckin' hate this, don't you? Almost be a blessin' if you flop today, maybe someone'll take pity on you and send you off to be a hunter jumper. Would suck for Steve though — whoa, hey there, easy . . ."

"Morning," Steve calls out, not wanting to sneak up on them. "Or, I guess, afternoon now — jeez, she looks like she ran already, doesn't she?"

Bucky glances back at him and grimaces. "I think your start's gonna make or break it," he says. "Phil says to tell you — dude, what happened to your face?"

Steve unthinkingly raises a hand to press the sore spot on his chin. "Oh — nothing. Slipped in the shower." He hastily buckles his helmet on. "What did Phil say?"

Bucky eyes him, then goes on, "He says the track is deep right by the inside rail, where you're breaking from. He wants you to break fast and stay off the rail, and other than that, I don't think he expects much. Not you," he adds quickly. "The filly."

Steve nods. "Yeah, I watched some morning workouts and the first few races, I've got my trip as planned as it can be."

The announcer blares out, "Riders up!" and Bucky boosts Steve up onto Maiden's back. The filly spooks and jerks under him and he settles in quickly, gathering up the reins.

"Good luck out there," Bucky calls up to him. "Don't be too nervous — I know it's your first ride for Winter Oak but we've all seen Maiden work out. If you get her all the way from post to wire, it'll be a fuckin' victory."

Steve has to crack a grin at that, feeling some of his own nerves dissipate. "I think I can manage that," he says. He hopes.

Bucky turns him over to a pony rider and Steve lets the other horse and rider guide them out onto the track. The racetrack feels massive compared to the training track at the barn, and the grandstands, though far from full, are intimidating. The pony rider keeps Maiden's head snug against the older horse's flank as the filly's hindquarters dance out, juggling Steve around. He sits as quietly as he can, patting her neck as they trot through the post parade toward the starting gate.

This part proves troublesome. Maiden is clearly not the only horse unhappy to be there, and she's one of the easiest to load. The number four horse takes a full two minutes of cajoling to get in, and Maiden quickly grows impatient as they wait for all ten horses to be led into the gate. Halfway through, the number one horse half rears and breaks through the starting gate; there's another delay as she's led back around and loaded again. Maiden's neck is damp under Steve's fingers, and he's starting to sweat himself. His pulse throbs under his jaw, roars past his ears. They're all in the gate now. The shouting from the spectators sounds like white noise. Steve takes a handful of Maiden's mane and braces himself.

BRNNGNGGG! The starting gates slam open and ten startled, thousand-pound animals leap into action. Maiden surges forward and Steve goes with her. It's a good break — excellent, for this filly. She's got her head in front of the horses to either side of her, and he just needs to push forward half a length more and then move her out, towards the better footing —

And then the wild number one horse staggers away from the rail and slams into them. From his peripheral vision, Steve sees the other filly drop, and then Maiden stumbles, hard. It happens so fast, and yet it feels like slow motion, the way his stomach drops and his heart slams into his throat. There's nothing to hold onto in front of him and he slips forward, a split second from being thrown over the filly's head and onto the track amidst a hailstorm of hooves. The horses beside them are surging past now and Steve throws his weight back as hard as he can, half standing and trying to brace upright in the short racing stirrups. Maiden catches herself, gathering her feet back under her until her head is up enough that he can seize her mane again and right himself.

She keeps running. It's as disastrous a start as they could've gotten, and maybe it's the excitement in the air, maybe her nerves are shot, but it's the most earnest he's ever felt her go. They're dead last by a good five lengths now, not counting the number one horse who's been pulled, but Maiden feels steady beneath him. If she's still game, he is, too.

"Get on!" he shouts, finding his voice again. "Hah! Come on, get, get!"

He has to work to keep her straight, but she's chasing the field. He pulls down his first pair of goggles, too spattered with dirt now to see where he's going. _We can catch one of them,_ he thinks to himself. _There's no way to make dead last respectable. We can get one._

Maiden wants to zigzag towards the rail, but Steve keeps her to the shallower footing he'd been eyeing earlier, where the fastest horses had run. They're actually gaining some ground as they head around the far turn. The horses hugging the inside rail are tiring faster, working harder in the deeper footing. Some of the closers are catching up on the frontrunners, and Steve sets Maiden directly behind a big bay filly and gives chase. The bigger filly carves a path through the field as they come onto the backstretch and Maiden, bless her troubled heart, follows faithfully behind.

They can't keep up all the way. The bay filly quickly pulls away, passing the frontrunners and taking the lead with two furlongs to go. Maiden's nostrils are blown wide with exertion and she flings her head up in protest as she finds herself suddenly surrounded. They're boxed into the middle of the field with nowhere to go, but Maiden doesn't have the juice to push forward, anyway. One furlong — just don't drop back — he gives her one quick slap on the shoulder with his crop, they're so close —

The wire flashes overhead, and they're done. He stands in the stirrups, Maiden's pace slackens, and he suddenly hears his own labored breathing and he can't suck in air fast enough. As his pony rider comes to collect him, he relinquishes entire control of the filly to her and fumbles to open his protective vest.

"You okay?" the other rider shouts over the wind in their ears. "That was some wild ride you just had."

Steve finds himself incapable of talking — gets his vest open, heaves in a few lungfuls, and gives her a weak thumbs up. His knees tremble with the movement of Maiden jogging and he drops his hands to pat her sweat-slick neck.

Bucky meets them at the opening to the track and takes Maiden as Steve drops down from her back. He stumbles a bit when he hits the ground and Bucky's free hand grabs his shoulder, steadying him.

"Shit, Steve." Bucky's face is pale, but he's grinning. "You alright? Fuck, for a second there we all thought you two were going down. Did you see the board?"

He points, and Steve pulls down his goggles to follow. He blinks a few times, and then he sees it. "We got fourth?"

"That was _wild_ ," Bucky laughs, handing him a water bottle. Steve takes a gulp. "Dude, are you okay though? Can you breathe okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Steve says distractedly, still staring at his and Maiden's names up on the screen. "My vest was just a little tight." Fourth place. Given the circumstances, he would've been happy with that even _without_ getting bumped out of the gate. He's feeling a little lightheaded. 

"I've got to bring Maiden to her new owners," Bucky says. "Hang out if you like, Winter Oak has two more horses running today, both under Maria — I have to work, sorry — you're sure you're okay? Keep that." He gestures to the water bottle. "I've got another. I'll see you later?"

Steve nods and takes another swig from the water bottle. It's his first week, and his schedule is so light — just one horse today, two tomorrow, and then Tasha on Saturday. He feels free and relaxed, like his body is made of air, not quite steady. He leans against the rail and watches the field for the next race start to load.

•••

Bucky doesn't see Steve again until that evening, when he finishes chores for the horses staying at the track for the weekend and heads to the cafeteria for dinner. He gets a rather obnoxious text from Clint — reads as far as the words "boy toy" before promptly deleting it — but goes to meet up with the other groom anyway, and, as promised, Maria and Steve as well.

Both jockeys have showered, making Bucky glad Clint's there after all so he isn't the only one smelling of horse manure; until, that is, Steve smiles at him kind of awkwardly, glances to Clint, and looks away as they take seats at a corner table. Bucky feels a sudden pang of guilt, wishing he knew what to say to set things straight.

Turns out he doesn't have to. Clint saw Steve's look, too. He clears his throat loudly and says, completely out of the blue, "So, James, you been seeing anyone lately?"

Bucky nearly chokes on his drink. "What?" he coughs. 

Maria rolls her eyes. "Really, Clint? You're gonna do this now?"

"Yeah," says Bucky hastily. "I mean — congrats to Steve and Maria, yeah?" He raises his glass in a half-cheer. "Maria got second in a blanket finish and Steve brought his run back from the dead so I think some celebratin' is in order."

"Here, here," says Maria, clinking her apple juice against his lemonade.

"Just sayin'," says Clint, and he waits, times it perfectly, sees Steve going for his water just as he says, "Some proper celebratin' would be a good fuck right about now, and you only ever turn me down when you're pining over someone else."

Steve really _does_ start to choke; Maria has to pound his back as he splutters into a napkin, face turning bright red and tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. "Really, boys?" she says tartly. "At the dinner table?"

Clint mashes up his tofu with his fork. "Aww, can't help it," he says unrepentantly. "Racetrack excitement gets me horny. And we're _bunking_ together but James won't let me bone —"

" _Barton_!" Bucky could crawl beneath the floorboards and rot with embarrassment; Steve's face is so red it's a wonder he hasn't died from lack of blood circulation to the rest of his body. "Shut _up_."

Clint squirts ketchup into his tofu and continues mashing until the mess on his plate resembles something from a biology classroom. "You're breakin' my heart, baby," he says. "How could you replace me so easily?"

Bucky drops his face into his hands. "Are you kiddin' me?" he says, voice muffled. "Please, please, stop."

Thankfully, he hears the sounds of chairs scrapping against the floor, a mild protest from Clint, and then Maria dragging the groom away from the table. Bucky is left alone with Steve in a moment of horrible, awkward silence. Had they planned this? The probably planned this. God, Bucky hates his friends. He can't even look at Steve right now.

"Umm . . ." Steve sounds completely lost. Bucky peers through his fingers and hopes to fuck the jockey isn't about to tell him to go fuck himself. "I — should I — um, I don't wanna, like, if you and Clint — if that's a thing — sorry, I don't wanna assume anything about, you know, what's happening with us, or you, or, um, or —"

"No, _god_ no," Bucky breaks in, dropping his hands. "That's just — him and I, it ain't a real thing, we just mess around when we don't got no one else. Forget about him. I like you, Steve, I really do, so I told him to lay off while I figured out if this was something that might, y'know, happen."

Steve is staring at him, still looking a little lost but with a funny half-smile on his face. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I think — maybe, yeah."

Bucky tries to fight off the dorky smile he feels creeping over his own face. "Yeah?"

Steve's still just sort of staring at him, and Bucky almost worries he's about to take it back when the jockey says instead, " . . . Does this mean I can steal one of your French fries?"

Bucky snorts. "I dunno, Steve, I think you're already pushing the weight limit for Saturday . . ."

It's a ridiculous jest; Steve's probably never been over a weight limit in his life. But he plays along and grabs the fry nearest him to throw at Bucky's face. "Hey, jerk!"

It's too easy for Bucky to snatch the fry out of the air and pop it in his own mouth. "Thanks," he grins. "Hey, you got homework tonight or do you wanna come down and do night check with me?" The stables were always so much more calming and peaceful late in the evening, when few people were around and the horses were starting to get sleepy. Bucky wouldn't mind having Steve to himself down there.

"I'm good, I've already done everything I need for the races tomorrow," Steve says. "Besides, I know you need help with the heavy lifting."

Bucky flicks a fry at him. "Punk."

It's dark out, and the barn still smells faintly of the bran mash the horses had for dinner when they enter the section where Winter Oak horses are staying for the weekend. Steve drags the hose out and starts topping waters while Bucky tosses each horse a flake of hay.

"I love that smell," Steve notes, inhaling deeply as he shuts off the hose and moves to the next stall. "Have you ever tried bran mash?"

Bucky glances over at him. "Can't say I have."

"It's not half bad." They fall into a silence much more comfortable than the one from earlier as they quickly finish the chores, checking that none of the horses are too warm under their blankets and setting up the grain for the morning. They've just left the feed room, closing the door behind them as they step into the darkened aisle, when Steve turns and his face is sort of just _there_ and Bucky acts before he thinks. He turns Steve's chin with his thumb, catches the slightly surprised but not objecting look on his face, and leans down to kiss him.

This time, Steve kisses back immediately. His hands slip up around Bucky's neck, fingers threading through brunet hair, and he pulls the groom in close. Accepting the invitation, Bucky wraps his free arm around Steve's skinny waist until they're pressed right up against each other. Bucky deepens the kiss and Steve lets him, letting out a small " _unh_ " sound as Bucky's tongue slips into his mouth, and Bucky feels a rush of heat in his gut. Fuck, Steve feels so good against him like this; he wants to hear him again, make the jockey enjoy himself as much as Bucky is right now. 

He lets the hand on Steve's chin drop, feeling down that bony chest and slipping his hand under the hem of Steve's shirt to get his hand on the smooth, soft skin of his stomach. Steve's breath catches, and when he makes another little sound, Bucky can feel himself starting to get hard.

Bucky pulls back for a moment, and fuck, Steve's face is all flushed, eyes dark and lips swollen and breath a little heavy. Bucky grins at him, and then glances around quickly. They really should be careful; anyone could walk in here.

"I have an idea," he says. He grabs the jockey's hand and pulls him towards the ladder up to the hayloft. "Come on."

Steve follows right after him and climbs up. Bucky finds a gap between hay stacks with some old horse cooling blankets, smelling of hay dust, but clean and soft. He draws Steve back to him and kisses the jockey again, and Steve comes right up against him and kisses back with a growing familiarity that's making Bucky's pulse speed up.

"Here," he murmurs against Steve's mouth, and he tugs the blond down so they're sitting on the blankets, and then lying down, with Steve half on top of him. The jockey follows him down willingly, letting Bucky take the lead. Bucky tangles their legs together and lets his hands wander, through Steve's hair, along his back, his ribs, his hips. Steve gives a surprised little intake of breath when both of Bucky's hands slip down the back of his jeans to grope his ass a little.

"Okay?" Bucky breathes.

Steve relaxes against him. "Mm-hmm." He squirms a little as Bucky feels him up and then lets the groom pull his hips close to grind against him, until Bucky can feel Steve hardening against his thigh. Steve starts to hesitate and Bucky immediately gropes him a little more firmly, kisses him assuredly as though he could bulldoze through the other's shyness. It seems to work; Bucky starts rocking his hips up against Steve and Steve presses back with a little catch in his breath, a soft moan exhaled into Bucky's mouth. For a few minutes that's all they do, breathing getting heavier and the friction starting to feel so good Bucky feels like he could do this all night until both he and Steve come from it. But . . . he has other things he wants to do to Steve. He eventually rolls them over so Steve is on the bottom and then tugs the jockey upright.

Steve sits up, looking disheveled and pink and thoroughly kissed, and lets Bucky pull his shirt up over his head. Bucky barely has it off before he's moving back in, pushing Steve onto the blankets and mouthing along his jaw, down his neck, scraping with his teeth, sucking gently. Steve gasps and arches under him, fingers coming up to tangle in his hair. Bucky's hands move before his mouth, running along Steve's torso, pausing over his nipples to pull a small moan from him — Steve is so quiet — before dropping lower, undoing his belt, button, and zipper. 

Bucky starts to tug his jeans and boxers down, and for a moment, Steve freezes up, grabbing at Bucky's hands to stop him. Bucky pauses, lifting his head from laving attention on the jockey's abdomen to glance up at his face. His breathing is still heavy, and he's peering down at Bucky with wide eyes.

"Sorry," he mumbles, then licks his lips and adds, "It's okay . . . it's okay . . ." and eases his grip on Bucky's wrists.

"Mmm," Bucky replies, kissing a line up his chest to his mouth. "You just gotta relax, don't be so nervous. Okay? Relax, Steve . . ."

"Yeah," Steve breathes, and Bucky finishes working his pants down to his thighs, freeing his erection. Steve bites his lip and looks away.

"Hey, c'mon." Bucky pulls his chin back over to press a quick kiss to his mouth. "You don't gotta be shy with me." He runs his free hand down Steve's body to carefully take him in hand, and feels Steve's breath stutter. "Mmm, you're hard. Fuck, Stevie."

He starts to move his hand, stroking slowly as he leans in for another kiss. Steve whimpers into his mouth, and Bucky can't even remember the last time he was this turned on. He moves his mouth lower, kissing feverishly, frantically, wanting to get his mouth on as much of Steve's body as he can. Steve is practically thrumming beneath him, tense and self-conscious but just as aroused as Bucky, pulsing in his hand and squirming with these little " _auh . . . unh, a-ah_ " sounds.

Steve has a grip on the blankets now, and he tilts his head back as Bucky moves to kiss a line down his neck, mouth open and hot. Steve's skin is smooth and flushed beneath his lips, and he jolts with a whine when Bucky pauses to give attention to one hard nipple, scraping with his teeth and sucking until one of Steve's hands tangles into his hair and he gasps. Bucky only pauses to pull off his own shirt and toss it aside, and then he moves lower, down the jockey's wiry abs and along his iliac furrow. Steve's hand in his hair is so gentle, not even gripping but stroking softly as though he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. Bucky can feel the tension in Steve's thighs as he puts a hand on each one, easing them apart to he can settle between them and get his mouth on Steve's cock.

Steve's not huge, but he's bigger than Bucky expected he would be. He licks up the underside before closing his lips around the tip and suckling experimentally; Steve arches under him with a stifled cry, and the hand in his hair stutters, clutches momentarily before loosening and petting again. Bucky reaches for Steve's other hand, untangling it from the blankets to put that one in his hair, too, trying to encourage Steve to take some control, but Steve's so goddamn shy about this; Bucky almost can't believe it's the same kid who can get slammed into the ground by a thousand-pound animal and bounce back up like it's nothing, and yet be practically trembling under him now, like he's terrified of being touched, of feeling good.

Bucky takes him deeper, hollowing his cheeks, and then starts to bob his head. He tilts his head to the side so he can see up Steve's body to his face. Steve's staring down at him, mouth half open and eyes glazed, his cheeks flushed a bright pink. Bucky purposefully maintains eye contact as he slides up and down Steve's dick as deep as he can and moans around it, teasingly, and Steve lets out a staccato groan in reply. His hands scrabble in Bucky's hair and finally Bucky can't take it, pulls back to pant out,

"Pull my hair, it's okay, I like it," before diving back down. Steve's hands tighten infinitesimally, could hardly be called pulling. Almost exasperatedly, Bucky grabs one of Steve's hands in his own and demonstrates, tightening his grip until it borders on hurting, creating that ideal amount of pressure on his scalp that's pleasant the way a deep massage is perfectly painful. Bucky gives his jaw a break by leaning down to lick over Steve's balls instead and the jockey gives a stilted cry, legs jerking up and hands suddenly fumbling between tugging on Bucky's hair and pushing his face deeper into his crotch. Bucky smirks through his ministrations and gives a breathy groan of his own at the feeling of Steve's thighs against the sides of his head; his legs are short, but fuck, Bucky knows how powerful they are, how long he can hold himself in a balanced crouch atop a moving racehorse.

Bucky licks back up his cock, tastes the precome at the tip and starts sucking again. Steve's letting out these soft, almost unprepared little noises, like he's never felt anything this good in his life and he wasn't quite ready for it. Bucky knows it's because he has so little experience being touched, but he feels a bit smug all the same. 

" _Ah . . . auh! Uhm . . . mmm, mm-hmm . . ._ " God, he loves those little noises, could get drunk on them, wants more of them, more of Steve. He presses open-mouthed kisses along Steve's erection, his inner thigh, up his stomach.

"Steve," he breathes, and is almost surprised himself by how deep and breathless his voice is. He continues kissing his way up Steve's torso. "Wanna finger you . . ."

He glances up. Steve's eyes have gone wide, his mouth still open with his heavy breathing.

"U-umm," he stammers. "I — I don't know . . ."

"S'okay." Bucky fumbles in his pocket for the couple packets of oil he'd taken from the cafeteria (what can he say, he's an optimistic guy). He rips one open with his teeth, squeezing a bit onto his fingers before tossing it aside, half full, and reaching down to feel along Steve's ass. Steve makes a little whimpering sound and tips his head back, one hand fisting in the blankets and the other clutching Bucky's shoulder. Bucky kisses up his neck, his jaw.

"Feel good?" he whispers, sliding his fingers gently over Steve's entrance, circling and tapping, teasing. There's something bizarrely erotic about the way it twitches under his caress.

Steve lets out a shaky breath and nods.

"Just gonna do one," Bucky murmurs. "Relax for me, Stevie, relax . . ."

Steve nods again, but he's so tight when Bucky starts pushing in his index finger. He makes a choked off sound and scrunches his eyes shut, white-knuckling the sheets.

"Fuck, you're so nervous,." Bucky glances up at him with concern. He works his finger a bit deeper and Steve lets out a pitchy gasp. "So tight, baby; Christ, you gotta relax. Okay?"

Steve nods. "Mm-hmm . . . yeah . . . ah!" His breath catches sharply as Bucky starts slowly moving his finger in and out, and he feels impossibly tighter. Bucky tries to work him open as gently as he can. He wriggles a bit, and Bucky can't tell if he's trying to adjust the angle for pleasure or from pain.

"You okay, Stevie?"

"Um . . ." Steve licks his swollen lips and stares up at the rafters as he works out his next word. "Burns . . ."

"It burns? It always hurts a little at first, should feel better soon . . . here . . ." He grabs the oil packet and squeezes the rest of it onto his fingers. The slide in is marginally easier, but Steve's just so goddamn tense. "Is that any better?"

"Mmm . . . yeah . . ." But Steve's eyebrows are pulled in tight, and as Bucky watches, he bites his bottom lip and whimpers.

Bucky pauses, suddenly struck by the idea that Steve might not _tell_ him if it wasn't okay. He's inexperienced and tense and stubborn as hell, and Bucky realizes he might not have the confidence, or self-respect, to tell Bucky to slow down. So he asks, "Do you want me to stop?"

Steve swallows, and he glances away as something in his expression tightens up. "Yeah," he breathes, and when he shuts his eyes, water that has built up in them leaks out the corners and down his temples.

Shit. "Okay." Bucky carefully slides his finger free, kissing up Steve's jaw to his ear to his temple. "That's okay, baby, I'm sorry." Steve's so embarrassed he won't even look Bucky in the eye, just keeps biting his lip and freezes up. Bucky gently tugs his lip free and kisses him, just briefly. "Steve, it's okay. We don't have to do anything you don't want; it's your first time, you're just nervous. We can work up to that, if you want."

"Sorry," Steve whispers, like he's somehow fucked up, like he's failed at something he'd set out to accomplish.

"Don't say that," Bucky reproaches. "You don't gotta say that, not ever for this sort of thing, okay?" When Steve just grits his teeth and doesn't reply, Bucky leans in close to his ear and adds, "Can I suck you off again? You seemed to like that . . ."

"If — if you want to," Steve mumbles, and it's a weird reply but Bucky reads it for what it is — an admission that yeah, he wants Bucky's mouth on his cock again, but also his fear of being indebted to a reciprocation that he doesn't feel ready for. 

So Bucky reassures him, "Fuck yeah I do," and goes down on him again with the distinct goal to make Steve feel as good as possible, as fast as he can. He tries to make a show out of it, moaning enthusiastically and turning his head to take Steve at different angles. It doesn't take long for Steve's hands to find purchase in his hair again and for his hips to start tentatively thrusting up, gaining confidence until he's practically fucking Bucky's face. Bucky winds up bracing his hands on the ground to either side of the jockey while he lets himself be used.

Steve's hands are suddenly tugging back on Bucky's hair, trying to pull him off. "B-Bucky," he stammers. "Ah, ah, I'm gonna . . . mm, fuck, I'm —"

Bucky only pulls back long enough to murmur, "That's it, baby, let go," before swallowing Steve down again. Seconds later, Steve makes a sound that's half a groan and half Bucky's name, and Bucky's mouth and throat start getting splattered with hot cum. He manages to swallow most of it, and the rest he wipes from his mouth with the back of his hand and cleans off on the blankets before Steve, head tilted back and eyes still shut, can see.

Fairly out of breath himself, Bucky moves up Steve's body to smooth his messy bangs from his forehead. He grins at the jockey's dazed expression.

"Fuck, that was hot," he exhales. "Can I kiss you?"

"Mmm," says Steve, and it must be an affirmative because he reaches up to pull Bucky's face to his and his mouth parts willingly when Bucky deepens the kiss. When he finally breaks it, it's to say, "But you're still — I mean, I don't know if I — I've never —"

"S'okay. I know." Bucky tongues him again for a moment, because Steve's mouth just feels too good to leave be for long, and then says, "Do you want to touch me?"

When Steve gives a soft, " _Yes_ ," Bucky takes his hand and moves it down to where he's rock hard in his jeans. Steve's hand is small and firm and gentle and _perfect_ , in Bucky's opinion. He's quick to work open Bucky's belt, button, and zipper, and Bucky braces himself on one hand over the smaller boy to help work his jeans down his thighs so Steve can get a hand around him.

"Oh my god," Steve breathes, as though just being able to touch Bucky like this is overwhelming to him. The sentiment sends a jolt of heat through Bucky's body. Steve's hand begins to move, a bit awkwardly, true, but quickly figuring it out. There's something endearing about the genuine effort Steve's putting in; he's so focused on what he's doing, so fixed on pleasuring Bucky, like he wants to prove he can give it as well as he can take it. "Oh my _god_."

"Steve," Bucky groans, and he leans to press heated kisses along the blond's clavicles. "Unh . . . yeah, that's good, baby, fuck. You never touched someone like this before, yeah?"

Steve nods, face furrowed with concentration and cheeks dusted with a self-conscious blush.

"You're doing so good," Bucky tells him, because he is, damn it, his clever little hand is adjusting quickly to the difference in angle between masturbation and getting someone else off and he's so good at reading Bucky, too; immediately catches on to what feels best and repeats those actions with intent, flicking his thumb over the head and stretching his fingers down to carefully stroke over his balls. "God, Steve — auh — unh, yeah. Fuck, that's good. You like it? You like touchin' me like this?"

Steve's face turns darker, but he bites his lip and nods; tightens his grip and moves his hand faster to pull a soft groan from the brunet above him.

"Yeah, bet you do," Bucky breathes. He's too caught up in the moment to censor himself, and he's always been a talker during sex. "You waited a long time for this — fuck, can't believe I'm the first person to see you like this. So goddamn lucky . . . "

Steve makes the softest, surprised little sound, just the barest hint of a whimper, and Bucky loses it. Muffling his groan against the smooth skin under his lips, he comes all over Steve's hand and stomach.

Bucky takes a moment there, catching his breath, and feels Steve begin to pepper little kisses along his shoulder and neck. It's ridiculously sweet, and Bucky hums contentedly.

"Mmm, that's nice," he sighs, rolling onto his side so he can lay down with smothering Steve but quickly pulling the jockey in close. "Did you like it?"

"Yeah." Steve snuggles right in, kissing back up Bucky's neck to his mouth. They indulge n a few lazy kisses before Steve pulls back and says, "We're kind of a mess, though."

"Mmm. Sorry." Bucky takes a corner of the blanket and uses it to wipe Steve's stomach clean, and then his own where they'd pressed together. "I'll toss this in with the rest of the laundry tomorrow."

"Kay."

Bucky wraps his arms back around the jockey, ready to settle down for some well-deserved snuggles, and gets distracted by the look on Steve's face as the jockey stares up at him.

"What? Why're you lookin' at me like that?"

Steve just smiles and ducks his head. "Nothing. You're cute, is all."

It's a bold comment, for Steve. Bucky feels rather pleased with himself. 

"If by 'cute' you mean handsome and manly and incredibly good with my mouth, then fuck yeah, I am," he agrees teasingly. "Now get in here and cuddle me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come play with me on [tumblr](http://www.theshadowofthewaxwing.tumblr.com/)


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